Prelude to the Mask
by MarieEri
Summary: Starting twenty-one years before the well-recorded events at the Opera Populaire, destiny steers the lives of a masked boy, an immigrant girl, and the son of a count.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's preface:**

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any character or place, etc. mentioned therein by Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical or Gaston Leroux's book of the same title. Do not even think about a lawsuit. I am up to my ears in school loans and you will never see a cent.

**Note:**

This story is quite literally the prelude to the phantom of the opera story we all know and love. I do not feel bound by any version—though readers fluent with Leroux's work and Webber's musical will recognize the influences. To give fair warning, this story is not for Susan Kay purists. While I find her history for the Phantom to be entertaining, there are many aspects of it—namely some interpretations of the leads—that I did not agree with.

Without father ado…

_**Caveat lector**_

* * *

**Prelude to the Mask**

* * *

**1848—Rouen**

Adèle Deniau removed the hood of her crimson cloak, a strand of blonde hair falling onto her shoulder. She stared at the metal grate, flinching as it opened.

"Yes, my child?" said the deep voice. Her hands gripped her thin skirt.

"It has been five years since my last confessional, Father." She closed her eyes, waiting to be rebuked. Instead, she was met with silence.

She peered closer to the grate, wondering if the priest was still listening. Leaning her head against the wall, she stared into the shadows.

"I could not bring myself to enter these walls, not when I am damned…"

"The Lord is a Lord of mercy. There is no sin beyond his grace," the priest interrupted. Adèle shook her head.

"No, Father, you are mistaken. I must look at the face of my sin every day since its terrible conception, and know that I shall never be rid of it. Our God is a God of vengeance."

The majestic hum of the organ began, echoing within the church walls, its tender beauty scorning her.

"What is it you speak of, my child?"

Adèle lowered her voice, its coldness striking the priest. "Do not mock me, sir. Though you be a man of the church, there is not a single person in this town who does not whisper of the bastard child I bore."

"The Lord is just," the priest answered slowly, his tone resolute. He could see her ice blue eyes stare vacantly through the shadows, their utter hopelessness. Sighing, Adèle pulled up her hood.

"Wait!"

The woman paused, her flawless, pale skin bathed in the dim light.

"Who are we to understand God's plan?" the priest continued. "The result of your sin may yet bear great blessings."

She pushed the door open, her eyes distant. "I would have rather seen the flames of hell than have lived to see that face."

Aghast, the priest stepped out of the confessional, watching her move quickly through the aisle, her cloak billowing out behind her. Eyes looked upon her as she passed, their stares akin to their whispers.

A small figure appeared from the shadows and followed a few feet behind her. At the door, he paused, looking back at the magnificent sanctuary. The boy was very young, a thin white shirt hanging over lean shoulders, contrasting sharply with the dark gray fabric mask covering the whole of his face.

The priest shook his head sadly, only then realizing the poignant organ music had been silenced, replaced by the dull thud of the closing door.

* * *

"_Edmond, no!"_

_The sabers clashed over and over again, her brother's skill dominating the desperate parries of the mason. She ran past the surrounding gentleman and grabbed her brother's arm. "Stop this madness, I beg you!" _

_Edmond threw her to the ground, glaring at her with the same malice that had been directed at her lover. _

"_You foolish girl!" he growled, pressing his saber point against her pale neck. "I am here defending your honor! Our family's honor!"_

_Her chest heaved as she looked up in terror at the poor figure standing a few meters away, his filthy clothing drenched in sweat. _

"_Please, no more, Edmond!" she said cried, "I love him." She drew in her breath as she felt the metal press further into her skin, drawing a thin line of blood._

_A yell broke the silence. She backed away at the same moment her brother spun, meeting his foe once again. "Gerard, no!" she cried, raising a hand to stop him. The mason sagged as her brother embedded the saber deep in his torso. _

_Edmond turned his eyes to her while he jerked out the bloodied blade out of the man's flesh. The mason gasped quietly, blood frothing at his lips. In one motion, he fell to his knees, his eyes distant. Edmond walked neatly around him, followed by the other gentleman. _

_She held him in her arms, his warm blood soaking her silk dress. "Please, don't leave me, Gerard!" she sobbed, pressing her cheek against his. She received no answer. _

Adèle looked up, blinking from the pale glow of the lone candle burning upon the small wooden table. Pressing a shaking hand to her forehead, she tried to block out the horrible dream.

Turning her head, she saw him seated in the corner, bent over an old book, humming softly. Shrouded in shadow, she could not perceive how the child managed to see the words. His innocent lullaby echoed relentlessly her mind.

"Be silent!" she scolded. The humming stopped instantly as the masked face turned toward her. Adèle ignored the injury revealed the innocent eyes. He lay the book on the ground carefully, his head lowered.

"You screamed in your sleep," he said timidly, "I was singing to you."

Letting out a deep breath, she stood, turning her head away from him, her eyes closed. "Go," she commanded harshly.

She could not hear him get up, or the silence in which the child stood before her. Shaking, she opened her eyes, regarding him with animosity. "You dare to disobey?"

A trembling hand offered her a piece of paper, torn from the book he carried. Her mouth parted as she gazed at the worn paper, revealing an unnervingly accurate likeness of herself, drawn with a talent far exceeding that of the artists who painted her in her youth. In it, she lay asleep, her face almost peaceful...

Her finger touched the fine lines, tracing them. They were drawn with such care, such adoration…what monster could have created such beauty? A tear fell, distorting the picture. Biting her lip, she held the drawing over the candle, the image burning into nothingness. She closed her eyes against the quiet sobs as the child moved away to his cot in the cellar.

* * *

The boy sat alone in the darkness for hours, roused by the loud pounding on the door. He could hear the brush of his mother's skirts as she walked to the door. At the sound of the angry voices, he shrank back, his breathing quickened. His heart pounding, he moved slowly to the crack in the door, peering through. 

"You already had your payment for rent, Monsieur. _Leave_." Her voice held its usual coolness, though underlined with something he had never heard before…

The man grabbed her wrist. "Stupid whore!"

The boy's eyes widened as the hand was raised, striking his mother across the cheek. She fell back onto the ground.

His hands forming small fists, the boy turned and pushed open the side door that led outside. The old gelding was tethered outside. The giant horse lowered its head as the boy approached, its ears alert. With quick hands, he removed the rope looped around the horse's neck.

When he saw his mother again, she was pressed against the table, a hand covering her mouth. His footsteps silent, the boy took the looped end of the rope and cast it over the man's head, pulling back on it.

There was a loud curse. The man glared at him, tugging the rope off his neck. His mother flung herself away, pressing herself into the dark corner.

A heavy fist came down, and all he knew was darkness.

* * *

"No common courtesy, anymore. None!" the old woman mumbled, huffing down the stairs flanked by a teenage girl with a lantern. 

At the door, she stopped, rapping loudly on the door. "I knew you're in there," she called. "I could hear you all the way…"

"Grandmother, hush!" the girl said, her hand touching the door. She drew it back quickly, her fingertips crimson. The old woman's eyes went wide. Taking a deep breath, she took the lantern from the girl and pushed open the door, holding it up.

"Lord, have mercy…" she whispered. Through the darkness, both women stared in horror at the disarray. The table overturned, broken in half; the few other possessions scattered aimlessly about the room. A woman lay face down upon the floor, her tangled, blonde hair intermixed with blood.

The grandmother walked alone into the room and kneeled beside the fallen woman. After a moment, she looked up at her granddaughter, shaking her head.

The girl crossed herself as her grandmother stood. Frowning, the old woman held the lantern higher, casting light on the small figure lying against the wall. She raised her hand to her mouth.

"Dear God, the rumors are true…" she murmured, staring at the scarred half of the boy's face. A mask rested by his hand. She heard a shriek behind her. One stern look and the girl quieted.

"Is he dead?" she asked, trembling.

"The Lord wasn't _that_ merciful," the old woman retorted, noticing the child's quiet breaths. With shaking hands, she set down the lantern and quickly thrust the mask over his face.

"There," she sighed, taking another glance around the room. "We will take him to the church steps. There is nothing else we can do. He is an orphan now."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

"He is waking…"

"Obviously. Go."

The boy opened his eyes to the lined face of the priest hovering over him. Tensing, he felt for his mask, touching his own scarred flesh. Panic-stricken, he covered his deformity with a hand as he stumbled backwards.

"Quiet, child," the old man said gently, lowering the bloodied cloth into the basin. He picked up the mask held it out to him. The boy grasped the mask tightly, adeptly moving it to conceal his features.

The priest watched as the child pressed himself against the wall. Even from behind the mask, he could see the sharp eyes glace at the bloodied cloth. A small hand reached up to feel the gash on his head.

"Where is she?"

The priest's heart broke at the knowing look in the child's eyes. "At peace," he said quietly. The boy lowered his head, his eyes glistening with tears.

"Because she is without me…"

The priest opened his mouth, and then after a moment, closed it, powerless to lie to the child. After a long silence, he stooped and picked up a tray with a small loaf of bread and cheese, setting it on a small table.

"This food is for you, should you desire it, as is this room, should you choose to stay." He paused, his gaze unwavering.

"Within these walls, you will not be judged by this," he said, gesturing toward the mask, "but here." His wrinkled hand motioned to the boy's heart. "God sees only the soul."

The boy looked at him with large eyes, unmoving. The priest smiled grimly and picked up a candle, turning to leave.

"Thank you," whispered the soft voice. The old man nodded and left.

* * *

The priest moved slowly down the stairs to his study. Spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his eyes scanned over the letters in his hand. At the foot of the stairs he paused, looking in through the doorway, a small grin spreading across the wrinkled face.

The boy was facing away from him, lying on his stomach poring over several large volumes. The priest stared with a muted awe. Those were books that even boys thrice his age would not attempt to decipher, even then, under tutorage.

The old man turned his head at the quiet footsteps of the seminarian. The young man stopped at his side.

"You let him into the library?" came the exasperated whisper, "some of those volumes are exceedingly rare…"

The priest held up a hand, moving away from the opened door. "Those dusty books could hardly be harmed in those hands. Let him be."

The young man sighed, not moving.

"Do we even know his name?" he asked reproachfully.

The priest shrugged. "He did not tell, and I will not ask." He frowned at the seminarian's confused expression. "Trust must be earned, Lucien."

"Do you know nothing of his background? I heard the mother was of ill repute…"

The priest turned heatedly at him. "I knew of his mother." He sighed, his eyes narrowing. "You, a man of the church! You know better than to judge a child on actions of a parent."

"The Lord is longsuffering and of great mercy…but by no means clears the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children," Lucien quoted, his tone flat. He grasped the arm of the priest.

"He is damned, sir, just look at him! God will surely punish us for keeping such a thing within holy walls."

The old man pulled away from the other's grasp. "Leave now. And seek penance." When the footsteps faded away, the priest slowly entered the library, setting his papers down on a chair.

"Might I join you?" he asked, noticing the child was sitting up, as though expecting him. The boy nodded.

Pursing his lips, the priest willed his old joints to cooperate as he took a seat upon the floor, careful to give the boy plenty of space.

"Ah, there," he sighed, smoothing out his robes. He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose, looking down at the nearest book. "Oh, that one," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I had many a nap in attempt to wallow through those pages."

He glanced up, for the first time, seeing some hint of amusement in the boy's demeanor. Smiling, he found himself staring into the hazel eyes…completely childlike, and yet not so…full of too many unspoken hurts.

Unable to look anymore, the priest turned his gaze back to the yellowed pages of the books, his mind churning with self-resentment. He had no more doubt that the child had overheard the words spoken of him, and yet he threw no tantrum, bore no outward sign of offense. If his earliest lesson was to accept aversion, he had learned it well.

To his surprise, the child spoke.

"These are your books?"

Thankful for the distraction, the old man nodded. "Many are from my time at the university, suffice to say," he said, chuckling, "they have not been opened in quite some time."

The boy paused a moment, gazing back at the book in his hand.

"You did not always want to be with the church?"

The priest smiled at the astuteness of the child's words, spoken far more as a statement than a question.

"Not at all. In my youth, I studied a great many things, until after some years, to my dismay, I finally came upon a realization."

The boy's head tilted inquisitively. The priest gently lifted the book from his hands, closing it, his old eyes focusing past the mask. "There will come a time when the knowledge of this world can bring no more answers, no more comfort. And when one accepts this, the only logical place to turn back to is God."

The child looked down at the book again, assimilating the priest's words. The old man glanced out the window, the sun already falling behind the trees. Dark, dusty rooms were no place for a child, he thought, yet the boy showed no inclination of going elsewhere. He paused a minute, his eyes lighting up when the idea at last struck him.

"You like music, yes?"

The boy's head turned up instantly. The priest smiled. "Our organ's age is rivaled only by myself and in desperate need of skilled hands." He chuckled. "I believe you already have some familiarity with it."

The boy's head lowered a fraction, but even the mask could not hide the delight that shone in his eyes.

Groaning, the priest struggled to stand, even after the brief time, his limbs stiff. He felt a quiet touch at his arm, helping him up. He smiled at the child.

"Thank you," he said, moving slowly to gather his papers once more. The child followed close behind. The priest laughed. "Oh, you mustn't linger for me. The organ awaits." He waved his hand encouragingly. The masked face regarded him for a moment, but the boy did not move from his side.

* * *

Weeks passed quickly, the cold days of winter gradually fading into the chill breath of spring. The priest watched with some ease at the newfound confidence in which the child navigated through the church, never without some large volume or sheets of music. During mass, he adeptly disappeared, though the old man doubted that he was ever far away.

The priest stood in his office, placing a book back on its shelf as Lucien strode in, holding a large, unlit candle.

"Look!" he demanded, setting it on top of the priest's papers. Sighing, the old man picked it up, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. After a moment, a small grin played on his lips. He handed the candle back to Lucien.

"I see no flaw."

Lucien's mouth dropped open. "Are you blind? It's a depiction of the Virgin Mary herself!"

"And it is exquisitely carved," the priest retorted, his eyes twinkling, "I commend the artist."

The seminarian's face turned several shades of red. "It was _him_, wasn't it? The impudence! This is a house of…"

A thunderous chord shook the walls.

Lucien jumped, dropping the candle while he pressed his hands to his ears. "My God! The end times! The Lord has finally returned to smite us!" he bellowed, looking up at the ceiling in terror.

The priest ignored him, listening intently. After a moment, he glanced at the younger man again.

"Can you not hear it?" the priest whispered, his eyes far away. "It is a variation on _Dies irae_. Listen to the chord progression…brilliant..."

Lucien lowered his hands, his eyes narrowed. "Sacrilege," he mumbled, storming out of the room.

With a sigh, the priest walked over to the broken candle on the stone floor. Suppressing a groan, he kneeled, picking up the pieces of wax with reverence.

* * *

The priest carefully made his way to the balcony, keeping himself in shadows. The music was no longer as the roar of a lion, but like a lamb, gentle, hanging in the air before fading softly. He stopped by the heavy curtain, looked at the small figure perched on the organ bench, surrounded by the glow of a hundred candles. The child looked intently at the rows of keys, the sheet music long forgotten, his small hands moving with a grace rarely gifted to children his age.

The priest blinked away his tears, clasping his hands together. All too suddenly, the music came to a halt, the organ bench overturned as the boy shrank back.

"Oh, please," the priest said, coming forward, "I…I did not mean..."

The boy looked toward the ground. "I did know anyone was listening," he said quietly.

The priest righted the bench, his eyes fixing upon the worn wood. "It is a shame to only allow these walls and a grizzled old man to hear such beauty."

He turned his eyes upwards, watching as the small hand touched the gray mask.

Looking away, the priest nodded his head respectfully and left the boy in peace. At the stairs, he paused, looking back.

"All of heaven must weep for you," he whispered.

"He did what?" Lucien whined, his eyes wide. The priest sighed, lighting the next candle.

"He agreed to play at the next mass."

"But he is a child!"

The priest raised an eyebrow. "And he plays like an angel. It is a gift that should have never been repressed."

The younger man stepped in front of him, his eyes narrowed.

"It is not natural for a child to possess such ability! Have you forgotten what lies behind that mask? He is more akin to a devil than an angel!"

The priest regarded him a long moment, his gaze shrewd.

"Your jealous of him, aren't you, Lucien?"

Shaking his head, he glared into the younger man's eyes, his tone frigid.

"As despicable as that is, it remains your sole validation to loathe him, for the child has shown more intelligence and potential these past months than I have _ever_ seen from you."

The younger man took a step back, dumbstruck. Biting his lip, he turned and left the priest alone.

* * *

Lucien followed the chorus members up the long stairs to the balcony. At the summit, he paused, touching the shoulder of a young girl. She turned to face him, her eyes darting from him back to the others.

Squatting, he smiled at her. "Are you nervous?"

She stared at the floor. Lucien smile flattened. "There is nothing to be frightened of. In a matter of fact, the boy playing the organ today is no older than yourself." The girl looked up, her large eyes widening. "Really?"

Lucien nodded and wagged a finger at her, beckoning the child closer. "He wears a mask," he whispered, standing. Giving her one last pat on the shoulder, Lucien hurried down the stairs, his lips forming a cruel smile.

* * *

The priest stood at the front of the sanctuary, his eyes moving up to the balcony. The chorus slowly took their places, waiting for the cue. The girl's voice rang off the stone like a bell, the deeper voices joining her. The congregation was apathetic to the music, staring ahead. The priest had to fight his smile when they started at the sound of the organ, turning their heads back to look up at the balcony. The sounds born under the small hands were breathtaking, demanding attention while still giving service to the accompanying voices.

When the last note faded, the people slowly turned back toward the front, their whispers silences by Lucien's rigid stare. Clearing his throat, the seminarian's bass voice rang over the congregation, their voice echoing in reply. His eyes turned upward, seeing the glances of the chorus upon the young organist, thought none akin to the innocent and curious stare of the little chorus girl.

The priest followed his glance. The boy sat stiffly. Even from the distance, he could see the cowed tremor, the desire to run overcome by some unspoken loyalty to remain. The priest felt a grip on his heart. What had he done? Without the mask of music, awe lapsed into shameless curiosity… he had cast the boy to the wolves.

Only when the child's fingers touched the organ keys again did his poise return. No one could see the deep breath he drew in, the closing of his eyes as his pure voice sang the first chord of _Angus Dei_, but every ear was captive to the voice, the beauty of it rivaled by none. The voices of the chorus joined in consciously, swept up in the guiding music.

A piercing scream shattered the illusion. The priest looked up in horror as the little girl stood at the organ bench, the mask falling from her hand to the floor. More shocked gasps followed as the girl was pulled away. The congregation was on their feet, the confused voices rising.

"Grab it! That is no creature of God!" someone yelled. The boy seized the mask and ran, the organ music falling to the ground.

The priest was numbed, the hundreds of voices surrounding him echoing in his mind.

"I thought he was dead! His mother was murdered."

"He ran! What if he is guilty!"

"That thing deserves to be locked away! Think, a monster in God's holy church!"

"Please, calm yourselves," Lucien called, his plea unheard. He glanced at the old priest, his eyes devoid of sympathy.

As fast as his legs would allow him, the priest and scrambled up the narrow stairway, gasping out a prayer. When he reached the boy's room, he threw open the door, peering desperately inside. The stillness was overwhelming.

"Where is he?" Lucien asked, coming up behind the old man. "There are men coming to fetch him."

The priest turned and looked at the seminarian, his composure snapping.

"Why…he has done nothing!" he gripped the other man's collar, shaking it.

"That is not our right to judge," Lucien growled, pulling away. The old man looked at him with vacant eyes.

"Yet it does not save him from condemnation," he choked, his chin shaking.

Lucien ignored him, turning his head, listening. "They're coming. If you will excuse me, I must find him…"

"He's in there," the priest interjected, pointing into the dark room. Lucien moved past him, only to slump against the floor seconds later.

The priest let the small candelabra fall to the ground. Breathlessly, he moved to the only other place he knew the boy might have gone…

Hastening his step at the sound of the voices, he shut the door to the library, locking it. His chest pounding, he saw at the small figure huddled against the wall.

"You must leave…there is no time," the priest whispered, coming forward. The boy did not move. Turning his head at the voices, the priest went to the window, and with shaking hands, shoved it open.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. The priest turned back to the child, grabbing him by his shirt.

"Run! Do not let them find you!" the old man urged, dragging the boy toward it. At the window, he paused, the child trembling under his grasp. Still, he made no motion to run, the hazel eyes glistening behind the mask. The old man pointed toward freedom.

"You are a monster…you have no place here! Go now!" he said fiercely, "and never return!"

Pulling away, the child disappeared into the night.

A sob escaping him, the priest shut the window and collapsed against the wall, his face buried in his hands. Men barged through the door, blinking in the darkness. They listened as the priest mumbled the same words over and over.

"Father, forgive us…we know not what we have done…" 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:** Thank you all who reviewed! I truly appreciate it. It is always encouraging to know that this piece is getting read. Though no one has yet to raise concern over the plot, I promise that eventually the two other leads will make their appearance-but since the Phantom is so pivotal to the rest of the story, it is important to spend ample time fleshing out his background.

Shall we?

* * *

**1849—Paris**

Monsieur Jevou brushed the flour from his hands upon the stained apron. The sun was just starting to show its face over the waking city, promising warmth from the chill air. The baker hardly noticed, the ovens long since causing sweat to drip over his brow.

Pulling the fresh loaves from the oven, he added them to the platter already filled with crêpes and pastries and placed them in the store window. Stepping back, the man admired his handiwork. Without doubt, his was the finest bakery in Paris. There was not a single aristocrat who did not require his culinary talents at their grandiose affairs. There were so many requests, he mused, that he often had to refuse them. Yes, his baked fineries were unsurpassed…

His smile dissolved as he glanced upon another pair of eyes.

"_You!_" the man growled, making for his broom. The streets were filled with vagabonds, but this little masked derelict's subtle thievery exceeded that of most facile attempts. He would be absent for weeks at a time, but whenever the masked face appeared, baked goods were sure to depart.

The hazel eyes narrowed, and the baker had little doubt there was a grin beneath the mask. His face reddening, he bolted out the door waving the broom. Moments later, he landed on the ground beside a dumbfounded servant.

"Oh, pardon me, Mademoiselle," he entreated, getting to his feet. "I did not see you there…"

She stood and brushed off her skirt, her lips pursed. Clearing his throat, the baker lifted up her basket and opened the door, a hapless smile plastered over his face. Without a word, she strode inside. Sighing, the man followed her, but not before taking a glance at the window display.

All of the crêpes were gone.

* * *

**1851—Paris**

The first snowflakes of winter fell softly on the Parisian streets. The boy walked through the shadows, his face turned away from the gray sky above. He listened to the eager voices of children beside their parents, their faces lifted upwards to catch the flakes. Only able to stretch out a hand, he watched sadly as the perfectly formed crystals disappeared upon meeting his touch, small water droplets the only remnant of their former beauty.

Stopping in an abandoned street, he leaned against a wall, his frail body overcome by another series of coughs. Gasping, he tore off the mask, taking in the cold air.

"If I had some hot tea, I would give it to you."

The boy snapped up his head, pulling on the mask. His eyes wide, he saw the old woman huddled against the same wall, buried under layers of shawls.

The coughing subsided, the boy watched his onlooker warily. The old woman sat on an overturned crate, nestled between a large dog and a basket of fresh blood-red roses at her side.

"Oh, don't mind him," she chuckled, nodded toward the dog, "only his fleas bite." A withered hand appeared from beneath the worn clothing, beckoning the boy forward. He did not move.

The old woman tilted her head. "Why the hesitation? You sound young."

"You saw me."

She laughed. "Yes and no, but why should it matter?" Her lips broke into a smile as she heard the quiet footsteps approach, stopping a few feet away from her.

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Clouded eyes stared at him, unblinking.

"You're…"

The old woman shrugged and lowered a hand down the level of the dog's mouth, the pink tongue lapping over her fingers. "I do not miss it," she said without looking up, "the blind see better than most."

Giving the dog one last pat on the head, she straightened again, turning back to the boy.

"You have a good heart. I do not need my eyes to see that."

The boy looked down at the roses, snowflakes glistening on the brilliant petals.

As though sensing his gaze, the old woman slowly reached down and felt for a flower, tenderly picking up the long stem. A finger stroked the crimson petal, her distant stare moved past the boy.

"Roses were always my favorite. They have all the thorns of ill-fated shrub, but its flower is unmatched in splendor."

"Indeed."

She smiled. "Ah, another lover of beauty. I am pleased." Leaning forward, her shaking hand held out the rose toward the boy.

"I suppose you are a bit young to hold a young lady in affection, but when you find her, give her the flower that speaks of your heart."

The boy nodded and gently took the rose from the outstretched hand, its scarlet shade brilliant against the gray and white world surrounding them.

* * *

The street lamps burned low, hardly breaking through the dark night. The young couple moved cautiously through the abandoned streets, their head bowed against the merciless wind. Christmas wreaths slapped against closed doors. All around them, windows were lit, the warm glow mocking.

The woman paused, her hand resting against the brick wall of a building.

"Atali?" the man asked, drawing close to her. The woman shuttered, a hand resting over her swollen belly. Biting her lip, she pushed away from the wall, smiling weakly. "I will be fine…" she replied in their native tongue.

Her husband set down the violin case and took her hands, rubbing them between his own.

"The man said the inn is not far," he said between chattering teeth, "we will find a warm room...and I can find you a doctor."

His wife glanced back up at him, her eyes betraying her nervous excitement. Nodding, she leaned against her husband as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him. They had moved no more than a few feet when she stopped abruptly.

"What is it?"

She did not answer, moving away from his side.

Raising a hand in futile attempt to stop her, her husband watched as Atali kneeled beside a still form. The violin case clamped tightly under his numb arm, he let out a sigh and followed. After a moment, his eyes focused through the shadows to the small, sleeping figure lying against the cold wall, a thin blanket covering the scraps of clothing. The face was covered, save for the portion cut around the eyes, the skin pallid. The cold night gave away no sign of breath.

"Atali…"

The young woman looked up at her husband with wet eyes. "He is just a child," she whispered, staring back at the still form. "We cannot leave him here…"

Her husband's eyebrows knit. There were countless homeless scattered through the Parisian streets that drew no more than a pitied glance. What then, drew her to this child among many? Had she forgotten that their present situation hardly differed?

A reluctant but gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. "Atali," he said quietly, "there is only enough money for the room…perhaps the doctor…"

After a long moment, she nodded, a tear trailing down her cheek. She moved closer, her hand wavering just over still form. Closing her eyes, she kissed the masked forehead, tears falling onto the fabric.

"May God send you an angel," she breathed, pulling away. She looked back up at her husband. With sad eyes, he took her hand in his own, and led her out of the alley before they disappeared once more into the night.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:** Again, let me convey my appreciation for those of you who have reviewed-it is truly heartening! Moving on…

I think I am too ambiguous for my own good since no one has really mentioned anything, but there is a heavy use of foreshadowing in this piece—namely in the earlier chapters. Throwing in all the little nods to Erik's future is half the fun of writing this! On that same note, if I may bring the reader's attention to the young immigrant couple of the previous chapter…the woman _is_ pregnant and her husband _is_ carrying a violin. But enough hints.

I have altered some historical dates for convenience, and I hope the reader can forgive me for such.

Continuing on…

* * *

A carriage pulled up in front of the elegant stone house.Holding his hat under an arm, the finely clothed gentleman stepped out, repressing a shiver from the biting wind. Striding up to the coach driver, he handed the man a generous sum.

"Return at nine."

The driver nodded, pulling away. Sighing, the gentleman ascending the carved stairs and stood before the massive, ornate doors. A maid answered his knock.

"Yes, monsieur?"

He smiled warmly, making her blush. "I desire to see Monsieur Gardnier. He is here, I presume?"

Her eyebrows knit. "I am sorry sir, but he has given strict orders not to be disturbed today…"

"Ever the slave to his work." The gentleman's smile faded, though his eyes held the same amusement.

"I assure you, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Gardnier will harbor no reservations about seeing his brother." He raised an eyebrow. Curtsying, the maid let him in, her expression befuddled.

"I can show you to his study…"

The guest held his hand up. "There is no need. I believe I remember the way." Giving her a dismissing nod, he made his way up the long staircase. It was richly carved, the wood shone of rich chestnut, all the more stunning against the marbled floors.

Reaching the summit, he gave a long look down either hallway, strangely darkened. After a long moment, he walked toward the dim light protruding from the base of one of the doors. Pushing open the door, he peered in, finding the middle-aged man seated at a desk abounding with blueprints and various sketches. He did not look up.

"I gave strict orders not to be disturbed…"

His brother stepped all the way into the room. "I had hoped you would make amends for relations, Aubert." The man's head snapped up, his eyes brightening. Standing, he hurried to his brother, giving him a handshake followed by a quick embrace.

"Galen! To what do I owe the pleasure? Are the English treating you well?"

The other man laughed. "Yes, indeed, my practice abounds. I had thought it an appropriate time to take a holiday, though by appearances, you need one more than I."

Aubert's face clouded as he gazed back at the chaotic piles of papers and books that studded the room. "Paris needs an opera house, and I am giving her one worthy of remembrance."

"But I would hope not at the cost of her designer," Galen commented, his eyebrow raised. He did not miss the dark circles under his brother's eyes, the streaks of gray that were not visible only a few short years before.

Aubert shrugged and walked over to a small table. "May I offer you a drink?"

Galen neatly picked up a pile of drawings from a chair, placing them on the ground beside him before he took a seat. "Yes, thank you."

Aubert smiled as he handed his brother the glass, taking a seat on the chair adjacent to him. Galen took a sip of the brown liquid, noticing that his brother had already downed half of his own glass. Frowning, he picked up one of the sketches at his side, his eyes following the lines.

"This must have been an early draft," he mused. Aubert nodded. "It was. Early on while digging for the foundation, a great body of water was found. There is no easy way to rid of such a lake, especially in the heart of Paris. I chose to build on top of it."

Galen's eyes continued to scan the page. "That is no simple engineering feat, though I hope you did not follow this particular drawing. I doubt this given structure could hold back such a large amount of water for an extended amount of years, much less support a massive edifice."

Aubert laughed. "You always did have a sharp eye for engineering, Galen. Too bad the study of medicine stole you away from a potentially illustrious career."

Galen looked up, his mouth tilted upwards. "I assure you, it was for profit only. You build the structure that will fall over their heads and I will mend the causalities."

Aubert shot him a tart glance, though the newly kindled amusement in his eyes was not hidden to his brother. He threw the last of the glass's contents in his mouth.

"The foundation built is not the one in your hands. Originally of course, I had intended to use those plans, and the engineers on site did not contend it, at least not to my face. The plans were lying out on a table while I was away for a brief time…and when I returned…"

He stood and went to his desk, pulling out a long, rolled up sheet of paper from a drawer. He handed it to Galen. "…this was lying atop it." Galen's eyes scanned over the drawing.

"Remarkable…" he said softly, his eyes not leaving the paper. "And who was the designer, if not yourself?"

Aubert frowned. "Therein lies the mystery. There is no identifying marking on the work, nor was there any man who would admit to its creation."

"So you have put the foundation of your opera house in the hands of a ghost," Galen teased, looking up. Aubert poured himself another drink.

"It was foolishness, I know…but I would have been a greater fool not to acknowledge its genius. The design was far superior to my own."

Galen stood and placed the drawing back on the desk. "Do not sell yourself short, Aubert. You graduated from the esteemed l'Ecole des Beaux-arts, and won the Prix de Rome. The opera house is yours."

"Perhaps." His brother moved to the window, looking out over the street below.

"By God though, most days I wish it were not…there is always another budget shortage, delayed supplies, fractious laborers… I can only pray that the powers of state can keep this country from another damn war, or worse, an insurrection…"

Galen looked sadly at him, and then moved his gaze to a dusty picture frame on the desk. Brushing it off, he picked it up.

"She really is very beautiful."

Aubert turned to look, throwing a casual glance over the picture. "Yes…Jaclyn. It was taken soon after our marriage."

Galen set the picture back down. "The house is so silent, I had nearly forgotten you were married. Tell me, where is my nephew?"

"Benoît is…" he was interrupted by a screech of the violin. Closing his eyes against it, Aubert shook his head. "The boy is taken with music, no doubt a whim of his mother that he took to heart."

Galen chuckled. "You were not so different at his age, before your hand…"

He stopped when his brother threw him a foreboding glance. Another shrill note pierced the air. Sighing, Aubert set his glass on the desk.

"Is your stay in Paris long?" he asked.

"Regrettably, I have only allowed myself a few days."

He nodded. "Then allow me to show you her future pride."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **

FF seems out to get me, as I have had more trouble with disappearing chapters. To insure that you have read everything, I recommend taking a glace at chapters 4 & 5—all the chapter positions have changed. Therefore, whatever chapter you may have reviewed before is no longer the same-or at least I think that is how it works. Sorry for the confusion!

Once again, thank you all for the reviews!

Shall we?

* * *

"Good evening, Monsieur Gardnier," the foreman called, approaching the two men. "I am afraid if you have come to inspect our progress, most of the men have retired for the night."

"Oh, I have no need to inspect. It is quite obvious your laborers have followed directions implicitly. It is thrilling to see what once was an image take form."

The foreman nodded, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "Thank you, sir."

Aubert glanced back at Galen. "If you will excuse us, I promised my brother I would show him around the site."

"Very good, sir."

With all the glee of a child, the architect started moving through the walls and dusty stone, pointing to various structures while his brother followed. Walking from the large vestibule into another expansive chamber, Galen paused.

"And what will this become?" he asked, gazing upward at the uncompleted ceiling, "the main hall?"

"Hardly. We are standing in the future stable."

"Since when do horses receive more grandeur than the opera patrons themselves?"

His brother could only chuckle, moving forward once more. Long minutes passed before he turned his head back.

"…and here we have…Galen?"

He retraced his steps, finding his brother standing in the shadows. With a sigh of relief, Aubert approached him quickly.

"Dear God, man, do not frighten me like that again! Even I could get lost in…"

"Where does this lead to?" Galen interrupted.

Aubert followed his brother's rapt gaze upon the archway before them.

"The underground caverns. This is one of two entrances, though eventually I intend to close it off."

"I desire to see it."

Aubert folded his arms across his body, the cold finally starting to seep into his limbs. "There is nothing but damp stone and water down there, Galen. The design you saw makes the whole thing seem quite elegant, actually."

"That fact does not stay my curiosity."

His brother sighed, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "As you wish."

Taking one of the lanterns hanging nearby, Aubert moved slowly through the descending passage, the air growing thicker around them. To his surprise, the depths did provide some warmth from the frosty air outside.

At the edge of the stone walkway, he paused, the lake before them.

"Does it extend further?" Galen asked.

Aubert nodded. "Yes, though not accessible, save by boat."

Galen stepped to the edge, silent a long moment. "You know," he said, turning back toward Aubert, "it really is quite stunning…in gothic sort of way. Imagine how it would appear under the light of a thousand candles…"

Aubert laughed, the sound echoing through the darkness. "The dank air must be getting to your senses, Galen. Come, we have been here long enough."

He had only moved a few feet before his leg brushed past something. Drawing in his breath, Aubert spun, lowering the lantern.

A figure moved in the dim light. Galen moved forward slowly. Like a cornered animal, wide eyes turned from one man to the other before the figure bolted.

With surprising dexterity, Galen caught hold of the child's shoulders. The boy struggled only a minute before slumping in his hands. Galen rested him on the ground and felt the small, pale hands. Frowning, he pulled down part of the mask, exposing the child's forehead. Resting his hand against it, his eyes widened.

"My God, he burns with fever."

Gathering the thin body in his arms, Galen started moving up the long passageways leading to the entrance. Aubert scrambled after him.

"Galen, surely you don't mean to bring him back…"

The physician turned toward him, his stare one of resolve. "Have you no compassion, Aubert? This child will die without aid!"

Aubert gave a consenting nod, ashamed at his callousness. They walked through the passageways in the caverns in silence, the lantern throwing haunting shadows around them. When they arrived at the surface, Galen navigated quickly through the construction to the waiting coach. Barking orders to the driver, he stepped inside, the boy still in his arms. Aubert had no more than closed the door before the coach pitched forward into the night.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**And yet another author's note:**

Sorry to reverberate this one more time—but the chapters went through a bit of an upheaval—(author shakes a fist at FF). Lest you are unfamiliar with the introduction of Galen and Aubert, let me refer you back to chapter 4.

Continuing on...

* * *

The maid pulled open the door, her polite greeting diminishing as her eyes glanced upon the motionless child in the physician's arms.

Her eyes widening, she stumbled back, allowing the men inside.

"Prepare a guest room at once," Galen commanded, shifting the child in his arms, "and bring a basin a warm water and cloths. Make haste!"

The maid looked up with vacillation at her master. Aubert bowed his head. "Cosette, do as he asks."

Swallowing, the girl gave a short curtsy. "Yes, Monsieur." Stealing one last glance at the boy, she ran up the stairs.

Minutes later, the small, limp body rested beneath crisp sheets, blankets piled over him. Sitting beside the bed, Galen took a wet cloth, holding it just over the boy's masked face. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes met the anxious glances of Aubert and the attending servants.

"I would like to be left alone with the child for a time. I will call for someone as the need presents itself."

The servants' exited immediately. After a moment of hesitation, his brother followed suite.

When he heard the click of the door lock, Galen pulled away the damp, fabric mask. Letting out a slow breath, he looked upon the scared face evenly. He had seen alarming disfigurements in medical school, and read about much worse, though his familiarity amounted to nothing as he gazed upon the twisted flesh of this child. The right side of the boy's face was a crimson mess, the cheekbone nearly lost in the mound of scarred tissue extending from his forehead to his lower cheek, waning off at his lip. The cartilage on the side of his nose was wasted away, pulled into the adjoining flesh. Only the immediate area surrounding his right eye was blessedly untouched, long black lashes resting peacefully against the fevered skin.

Dipping the cloth once more in the water, the physician squeezed it out and pressed it to the boy's forehead, his hand gentle. Pulling up the blankets further, he turned to pull a bottle from the black bag resting beside him.

The hazel eyes opened.

* * *

Madame Gardnier strode through the entryway, throwing down her fur muff and coat onto a small, ornate table. "Cosette? Cosette!"

She paused in the mirror, adjusting the fit of her jade silk dress. The young maid appeared from the kitchen, her face white.

"My apologies, Madame, I did not know you had arrived."

The lady ignored her. "Where is my husband? And why is this house so dark? I can hardly see my own reflection."

The maid took a nervous curtsy.

"I am sorry, Madame. The household has been in a bit of disorder since the arrival of your husband's brother."

"Monsieur Galen is here?"

"Indeed, Madame…" the maid answered, biting her lip. Waving her off, the mistress of the house moved upstairs, nearly colliding into her husband.

Pausing on the stairs, he gave he gave her a weak smile.

"Jaclyn! I was not expecting such a prompt return…"

The lady snorted. "The Comtesse Picard's parties have been quite dull as of late. I had little cause to stay."

Her husband nodded absently, a frown crossing his features. The woman standing before him was every bit as beautiful as when they had met. He had been ambitious student then with hardly a thought for love. But beauty…every artist was vulnerable to its enchantment, and he had proved no different. It was folly never to notice it then—the humble daughter of a painter with dreams of grandeur. Oh, but they were such different dreams than his own—Jaclyn had never longed to create, to draw out beauty from the mundane. Instead, she transformed from the blushing girl he married into a haughty socialite, a child the only evidence of their sad union. His frown deepened. Apparently, they had both succeeded in their endeavors.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Aubert touched her arm. "Perhaps you join me in the sitting room?"

She pulled away. "The maid said your brother was here. Has he lost the manners to greet me?"

Aubert looked at her jadedly. "He is…preoccupied."

A large crash sounded upstairs, followed by the scrape of shoes against the floor. Jaclyn turned her head towards noise, pushing past her husband.

Galen appeared in the hall, shutting the door softly behind him. Smiling, he approached Jaclyn and gave a polite bow.

"It has been too long, Madame. I trust that you are well." Aubert privately chuckled at his brother's hasty but flawless composure, hoping his wife would not notice the few dirt specks still resting on the black suit.

Her sour expression shifted into one of pleasure.

"I am, thank you." She glanced back to her husband. "Aubert and I were going to take tea in the sitting room. You will join us, of course—there is so much to catch up on."

Galen inclined his head once more. "It would be my pleasure. If you may excuse me a moment, Madame, I must speak a word privately with your husband."

Jaclyn's smile straightened a fraction, though she did as he bade. Aubert motioned for his brother to follow him into this study.

Closing the door, Galen regarded his brother levelly.

"She cannot see him, nor can any other member of this household, save myself…at least for now."

"Jaclyn does not even know…"

"It would be most imprudent to deny this request. Do I have your word?

Aubert shook his head. "Why this curious demand, Galen? And what was the all the commotion?"

The physician paused.

"You recall the fabric mask sheltering the boy's face."

His brother nodded.

"There was just cause for it—the child has a deformity unlike anything I have ever seen—quite unnerving to the callow eye. I would not wish anyone's nerves to be frayed, nor do I want the boy to endure another…episode."

Aubert gave him a confused look. Galen continued. "He woke, quite affrighted from having the mask removed, and no doubt, the strange environment. If not for his weakened condition, I doubt I could have restrained him."

"And now?"

"He sleeps, though under a dose of laudanum sufficient for a grown man."

The architect was silent for a long moment.

"Do I have your word, Aubert?" Galen pursued, his eyes serious.

His brother nodded.

* * *

"Are you mad? His presence will bring the ruin of the household!"

"I assure you, Madame," Galen said slowly, his tone restrained, "that the boy is not taken with consumption, but rather lung fever and the effects of malnourishment. With proper attention, he should recover quickly."

"Jaclyn…"Aubert said softly. Setting her teacup down roughly, his wife stood.

"I want to hear no more…my head aches. If you would excuse me…"

There was a long moment of silence after the swishing of her skirts against the marble floors could be heard no more.

Aubert glanced over at the grandfather clock, sighing. "Regrettably, Galen, I must also bid you goodnight. I have been away from my work long enough today." He looked up in the direction of the boy's room.

"I regret imposing on you in such a manner…" Galen started.

Aubert raised a hand to stop him, his eyes pensive.

"Do not apologize, Galen, for doing what most of us would not."

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Galen leaned over the bedside, resting a hand against the child's naked, flushed forehead. The fever had gone down over the night, the child laying in a deep sleep under the blessed effect of the laudanum. Even so, there were moments when he had stirred, crying unintelligible words as the young face contorted. Galen had been at his side in a moment, though he was powerless to do anything but view the effects of the child's nightmare before he slipped back into a peaceful void.

The physician picked up the soiled, fabric mask. The rough cloth was nearly worn through in some places, the edges ragged. Galen shook his head. How the child managed to endure such a thing was beyond his comprehension.

He took a long look at the scarred half of the boy's face. No burn could have amassed such damage, however severe. No…this child was born with that face…and likely rejected for the same. Forced to be seen to the world through a mask…a cruel fate to be given to any child, Galen thought sadly. His fingers tightened around the cloth. It was an even bitterer fate to acknowledge that this child had no choice. The miserable reality was that people had not yet learned—and a great many more refused—to see past misshapen appearances. Without this miserable cloth, the child would be victimized by the dregs of humanity, paraded as a freak of nature.

The boy shifted in his sleep, the marred portion hidden by the shadows, leaving only the untainted surface of his face exposed to the watching physician. The skin was pale, unblemished…even handsome compared to most children. Was it strange pity that afforded God to cede half the face without flaw because the other half was damned?

Galen dropped his eyes to the mask in his hands, his eyebrows furrowed. After a long moment, he lifted his eyes back up to the sleeping boy. Without hesitation, he walked over to the fireplace and threw the mask into the flames.

* * *

Adjusting his fresh suit as he moved down the stairs, Galen blinked through blood-shot eyes at the young boy and woman standing at the door. The boy turned, a smile lighting up his face.

Forgetting propriety, he dashed around his governess and threw his arms around the physician's waist, nearly throwing him backwards.

"Tonton Galen! No one told me you had come to visit!"

The man laughed, steadying himself. "I suspect they hardly had a chance. I only arrived yesterday afternoon."

He tousled the boy's sandy-colored hair, smiling warmly. "My God, you have grown, Benoît! You have a birthday coming up soon, don't you?"

His nephew grinned. "Next week. You will stay 'til then?"

Galen's smile dimmed only a fraction. "I shall have to see. But as of the moment, my stomach demands that I find breakfast. Perhaps with the permission of your governess, you will join me?"

The boy shot a pleading glance at the stone-faced woman. After a moment, she nodded politely to her charge in acquiesce. The boy followed his uncle down the hall with an unrepressed glee.

* * *

"You were in the audience with Queen Victoria?" Benoît asked, his eyes wide. Galen took another sip of his tea, nodding.

"Indeed. I am an acquaintance of her personal physician."

"What was it like?"

His uncle laughed. "Like any other concert. It was an honor to be invited, of course, though I was most impressed on by the violin soloist—it's a pity I never got his name. I am sure you would have loved hearing him."

The boy's face clouded. Setting down his teacup, Galen sat quietly.

"Did you hear me play?" Benoit asked miserably.

"It was a privilege, I assure you," Galen replied with a soft grin. His nephew did not look up.

"I am not very good. I think father hates it when I practice."

"Your father is just grumpy."

The admission brought the intended laugh. Benoît fingered the edge of a plate loaded with fresh croissants, his face becoming serious again.

"I am not even sure I like violin. I just like music."

"Have you ever considered another instrument?"

Benoît shook his head. "No…my mother wanted me to learn music—I don't think she ever cared what I played."

"No matter. The study of music is a noble pursuit. Don't give up on it."

The boy nodded thoughtfully.

"You know," Galen added, "your father once wanted to become a musician."

His nephew looked at him in surprise. "What did he…"

"Master Benoît?" a servant interrupted, "your fencing instructor awaits."

Sighing, the boy stood, Galen rising with him.

"I apologize, but I must go."

Galen waved it off. "Don't worry, Benoît. I have some errands to run myself." He smiled. "Would you mind reserving a breakfast appointment for me tomorrow?"

Benoît's face lit up. "Of course I wouldn't!"

"Good. Then off you go," his uncle prodded, grinning in return. Walking out of the large dining hall, Galen gathered his coat and hat, exiting the house to the dim sound of clashing sabers.

* * *

There were moments when he was sure he was awake. Always, there was that voice…_"It's alright. Shhhh…drink this…"_

Darkness always followed, its depths welcoming before the dreary return to a foggy reality. Surrendering into consciousness, he waited, listening to the dim voices. There was the voice he knew…the one that spoke to him before the dreams took hold. The other was beyond recall.

"_Black? That's a little ominous, don't you think?"_

"_What would you have me do? I did not think the boy would appreciate the painted likeness of a china doll."_

Something rested against his face…hard and cold, yet all the while, strangely relieving. He tried to move and the voices hushed.The darknesscame again…

* * *

"He said he was coming?"

"For the last time, Benoît, yes!" his mother snapped, looking up from her needlepoint. The boy silenced once more, sitting restlessly on the overstuffed chair.

His uncle peered out quietly from behind his book. The boy had been more patient than most his age, enduring the fussing of his mother and servants while he was taken shopping, sitting through an endless dinner with the sharp reprimands of his revolting posture….

Galen chuckled inwardly. It had hardly been his place to intervene, but after a few mouthed words and sly gestures, his nephew seemed to perk up once more. Still, as the evening wore on and there was no sight of his father, the boy's somber spirit returned.

A carriage stopped outside. Benoît jumped up and ran to the window, a smile breaking over his face.

Jaclyn looked over her needlepoint once more. "Benoît, you will sit down this minute and behave like a proper gentleman. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded, biting his lip. Returning to his seat, he flashed a small grin at his uncle, who returned the gesture.

Galen set his book down as his brother entered the room.

"Aubert! We thought you would never come," he chided playfully.

"You didn't think I would miss my son's seventh birthday, now did you?"

Benoît's face fell.

"Eight, Aubert. Your son is eight today," Jaclyn hissed.

"Oh...of course, silly me. I must be more tired from the site than I thought." He approached his son wearily, laying a neatly wrapped parcel in his lap.

Smiling, the boy quickly unwrapped it under his father's intent gaze. Galen watched as the excited smile transformed into suppressed dismay. He held a fine drafting kit—a notable gift for any beginning architecture student, though hardly appropriate for a child.

"It is very nice. Thank you, sir," Benoît said quietly. His father flashed a weak grin.

Galen cleared his throat. "I believe there is one last gift for the young monsieur," he said, standing. "If you would care to follow me, Benoît?"

His nephew leapt to his feet, followed at length by his parents. Galen stopped in front of the large oak double doors, pulling a key from his pocket.

"Eyes closed," he commanded. Benoît obeyed, his smile growing with the turn of the lock. Pushing open the doors, Galen led him inside.

"Alright."

His nephew drew in his breath, his mouth agape. In the corner of the room stood a coal-black grand piano, its high polish glistening in the low light. It was beautifully cut, the pure ivory and rich ebony keys beckoning to be played.

Jaclyn lifted her skirts and went to admire it with her son, running her hands of the smooth surface. "This must have cost you a fortune, Galen," she said, looking back at him.

"I suppose it is a bit much for an eight year old," Galen replied, "but perhaps it can make up for all the birthdays I missed while in London." Benoît ran up and embraced him.

"Oh, I love it, Tonton Galen! Thank you. I cannot wait to learn how to play it!" His uncle patted his back, taking a glance at the boy's observing father. He did not miss the dark look fired at him.

Frowning, Galen shifted his gaze out of theroom to the shadowed objects outside. Squinting his eyes, he saw a dark figure perched on the stairs, watching silently. The light flickered off the pale flesh of the unmasked side, lost in the depths of wet hazel eyes.

A moment later, only the shadows remained.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

When he opened his eyes, only the dark room greeted him. The heavy curtains were always pulled, making the night little different than the day.

Pushing the covers aside, the boy sat on the edge of the bed, memorizing his surroundings: the ornate oaken furniture, the paintings on the wall, the settee in the corner…but it was the full-length mirror that captured his attention.

Tilting his head, the boy approached it warily, his eyes locked upon the distorted image taking form. He shifted his position, standing directly before it. Moving with him, the reflection normalized. He did not move for a long moment, hardly daring to breathe. The black mask stared back, its smooth face his own—a cruel reminder of what might have been. Wordlessly, he touched the uncovered, pale cheek. Every curve, every plane was imitated by its dark counterpart. Shutting his eyes at the image, the boy turned away. He had never known…

Slowly, he raised a trembling hand toward the mask, stopped by the creak of the opening door. Stiffening, the boy watched as a young lady came in bearing a tray laden with food. A tall gentleman followed her. As soon was she saw the boy, she halted, visibly stunned. The man whispered some to her, taking the tray from her hands. Nodding quickly to him, she turned and left the room.

"I am glad to see you are no longer feigning sleep," Galen said cheerfully, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "However," he continued, facing the child again, "I do not recommend that you pursue regular activity just yet. Your body still needs time to mend."

Galen saw the child's eyes focus past him to the door, left ajar by the maid. The physician placed his hands behind his back, regarding the boy carefully. "If you run, I will not stop you, but I swear that neither I nor anyone else in this house means you any harm."

The boy did not move, his deep eyes peering into the physician. Unsettled, Galen turned his eyes away and stooped, fumbling through his doctor's bag.

"Does the mask fit you well?" he asked, pulling out a stethoscope.

"It does."

Galen paused, taken aback by the almost music-like quality of the voice, silken yet possessing resolute undertones.

"I am glad," he said at length. He moved toward the child. "I need to listen to your lungs," he said gently, kneeling. Cautiously, he lifted the shirt and pressed the cold metal to against the boy's chest.

"Breathe in deeply," Galen commanded. Nodding, he moved the scope against boy's back. "Again." After a moment, he pulled it away. "There is still congestion, but it is much improved."

Leaning back, Galen pulled the stethoscope from his ears. His mouth opened and closed futilely before he found his voice.

"Why did you go to the underground caverns?"

An unreadable expression passed over the visible half of boy's face.

"It was quiet."

"Still, a place with all that stagnant water and cold stone? Thank goodness we found you or surely you would have…"

The child's sad gaze did not waver, silently daring the man to continue. Galen watched the hazel eyes, his mouth parting at the tacit revelation. It was no senseless choice that had driven the boy to those caverns. _He had gone to those isolated depths to die._

Swallowing, the physician stood, closing his eyes against fighting tears. Clearing his throat, he placed the stethoscope back inside the bag.

After a long moment, Galen looked back at the waiting child. All he could muster was a respectful nod.

* * *

_Sorry for the short chapter, but I thought it was important enough to stand on its own. And now for some personal responses to reviewers…_ :)

**Chibi Hime**—You know, I was originally going to leave the 'Erik meets Galen' scene ambiguous and implied, so feel honored—I wrote this one for you. :)

**ModestySparrow9**—A loyal reader and reviewer! Thanks so much! I am looking forward to more chapters in "The Mask and Mirror."

**Aisling-Siobhan**—What would happen if the words "more soon" were stricken from your vocabulary? ;)

**Shards of Narsil**—Thank you so much for looking at my work! Please tell me you are going to update "What Might Have Been" soon.

**Elisabeth89**—Always very encouraging—thanks for the reviews!

**vAsHismYnIcKnAmE**—Hey, c'mon, I am updating pretty regularly… :)

**beneathmyskin**—You are going to continue writing, yes? "Thoughtless" was a wonderful piece. Thanks for the reviews!

**LadyCatBailey**—Thank you so much for your in-depth review. It was most encouraging. Hugs for you!

**Doomed Delight**—I glanced over "Damaged Waltz." It was rather good. Pretty nice so far. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:**

A big thank you to all my reviewers—you have no idea how much it means to me!

Also, as a note regarding the ending of the last chapter—the beauty of fiction is that much can be left to interpretation, and I do not want to deny any reader this. However, for those who are curious as to what ran through my mind when I choose such an ending, it is this: There is the obvious connotation to his later life, though more importantly, it was not so much out of despair that drove Erik to the opera caverns, but rather that even as a child, he possessed the mentality and fortitude to accept when the end was near…and so he went to the only place that would take him.

With that said, shall we continue?

* * *

Galen opened the study door, finding his brother seated at his desk, hunched over a mass of large blueprints. "Aubert?"

Waking from his trace, the man looked up, nodding a brief hello to his brother. Galen walked into the room, standing along side the desk, his gaze falling onto the blueprints.

"I wanted to inform you of my intentions to leave tomorrow morning," he said, without looking up. Aubert pushed back his chair and stood, pouring himself another cup of tea.

"I will be sorry to see you go, Galen. Your visit was truly a welcomed one." The corner of Galen's mouth lifted knowingly. After a moment, he straightened, meeting his brother's gaze.

"You know I cannot take him with me," he admitted quietly.

"I had assumed as much."

"I can ask no more of you when you have been generous enough to house him, which is why I have already taken the liberty of sending a letter to the head of the Paris Orphanage." He pulled a folded paper out of his breast pocket.

"This is the reply," he continued, his jaw tightening. "The man ensures me that the child will not find an ill reception because of his required mask…"

"But you do not believe that," Aubert finished, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. Galen inclined his head at the aloof comment, his eyes lowered. "An orphanage is a better fate than the streets," he admitted dejectedly.

"What is his present condition?"

"Youth has a tendency to grant its charges swift recovery. This child is no departure."

Aubert dropped his gaze back to plans on the desk. "Then why linger in his release?" he responded apathetically, taking another sip. Shaking his head, the architect moved back to his desk and sat down, absorbed himself in the blueprints once more. Galen slammed both hands onto the desk and leaned forward, spilt tea soaking into the papers.

"There are deeper scars there than the ones that you and I saw, Aubert," the physician retorted, his tone caustic. He threw the letter down in front of his brother.

"_Never_ lose sight of that."

* * *

Aubert dropped his pencil, taking a moment to rub his throbbing temple. If he heard one more note from that damn piano…

The music haunted the forgotten depths of his memory he bore no desire to recall. Every dull thud was mocking, sweetly whispering of a beauty no longer able to be embraced. Aubert looked wretchedly at his left hand before turning his gaze back to the paper before him.

The mass of lines and measurements seemed almost foreign, increasing the pounding in his head. Lately, he had he found himself having to forsake his position of architect to play one of an accountant or lawyer, cleverly attempting to convince the higher powers to supply the funds they were so reluctant to part with. Paris wanted an opera house, demanded splendor that would shake the world, yet she kept him on a suffocated leash. The truth was a bitter one, yet no longer unbearable to face. These ongoing trials and long years not only stole the majesty of the opera house from him, they had effectively diminished his will and talent to create.

Aubert groaned quietly as he stood, walking to the window to gaze out at the animated street below. He was a fool to have shouldered such a burden—perhaps it had been the inexperience of youth, the vanity to be known and remembered. If only his obsequious contemporaries were aware of the opera house's failings, the grandeur intended but could never form…at least not under his guidance. He wore an impressive facade, but it was no more than that.

Sighing, Aubert seated himself back at the desk. Immersing himself once more in his reviled task, the architect became oblivious to the sounds of the world. It was a long moment before his subconscious commanded him to look up, finding a quiet pair of eyes gazing at him with all the steadfast wariness and intensity that he in turn bestowed. Or rather, Aubert corrected himself, at the blueprints and scattered drawings before him.

"My brother's masked patient," he said crossly, his eyes back on his work, "on your feet at last." The sight of the child brought to mind the earlier conversation with Galen, which had done no part to lift his foul mood. Indeed, it had only blackened.

He had thought his tone dismissing enough, yet when he looked up again, the child still remained. Frowning, Aubert looked at the form-fitting black mask. Strangely, it did not detract from the normal features of the boy's face, instead lending an enigmatic aura to body that seemed too young to possess it. The stillness of his deep eyes, seeming to lack in all things infantile, only magnified the feeling. Aubert finally recognized the astute foresight of his brother—this child would find no place among his own. He was an orphan by every definition.

"What is it that you want?" the architect asked, his eyes dropping back down to the blueprints. The boy did not answer, instead picking up a rolled up a drawing pushed to the edge of the desk. Lifting his head at the child's subtle audacity, Aubert watched in fascination as the hazel eyes scanned over the lines without the slightest trace of puzzlement.

Standing, he moved closer to child, instantly recognizing the maze of lines. "Ah, the foundation of the opera house. Quite impressive, isn't it?" Aubert thought he caught evidence of a wry grin as the child continued to gaze at the drawing.

"That is where we found you," Aubert said, motioning with a finger toward the area. The hazel eyes glanced at him with a hint of amusement.

"Actually, it was here." With an astoundingly graceful motion, the boy pointed to the correct place. After a moment of silent comprehension, the architect looked at him in muted amazement.

The boy carefully set the drawing back on the desk, looking back atthe architectwith a steady gaze. Aubert met his stare, unmoving. In that moment, he understood. It was no a mere child that stood before him, but an intellectual equal, someone who bore all that passion that he once had possessed. The gaze asked for no pity, but rather carried the air of a respectful challenge.

"Might I ask your name?" Aubert finally asked, his voice unsteady.

A series of indescribable emotions flickered across the unmasked face, the tension in the air mounting before shattering at the command of the melodious voice.

"Erik."

* * *

Jaclyn slammed the hand mirror down. "Your brother is not taking him with?"

Aubert wearily took off his vest and laid it across the chair. "No."

His wife's face turned a shade redder, her eyes narrowed. "Then send him back to the streets where he belongs." She paused, running a comb through her hair. "It is a pity he did not die there," she continued, her voice lowered, "it would have spared your brother much trouble."

Aubert stared at his wife with curbed irritation. She would never understand what he saw in that boy—Erik—the gift he possessed, the untapped potential…

"Galen already contacted the orphanage."

"Good."

"I am not sending him to that place."

Jaclyn spun at him. Aubert continued, undaunted. "Actually, he will remain here for now."

"Are you fool, Albert? How could you keep that cur from the streets in this house? I will not have it!"

"_You will_, Madame," her husband retorted.

Jaclyn turned around again, facing the mirror of the vanity. "Fine," she spat. "But if he steals us blindly or does some other unspeakable action, you alone are to blame."

Aubert sighed. "Indeed."

* * *

Setting his bags by the front door, Galen made his way through the hall, peering past one of the doors.

"I thought I might find you in here," he said, walking into dark room. Benoît made no move from the piano bench. Walking over to a window, Galen drew open the curtains, allowing the warm, morning sunlight pour through. Kneeling beside the bench, his eyes implored his nephew's sullen features.

"Why must you leave already?" the boy asked quietly. His uncle gave a weak smile. "I have to return to England, Benoît…I am needed there."

"You are needed here, too."

Galen lowered his eyes at the admission, the air tense between them. Though the simple longing of a child, his nephew was strangely vindicated. With only his governess and tutors as companions, and seldom procuring a glance from his own parents...

Eager to break the silence, Galen nodded toward the piano. "Have you tried it yet?"

Benoît nodded. "I cannot play well…"

"Might I have a seat?"

The boy moved over. Arranging himself on the bench, Galen cleared his throat, his eyes gleaming. He studied the keys for a long moment before his hands gently struck the notes, his fingers moving with memorized grace. Benoît sat with rapt attention, listening to the rise and fall of the dueling phrases.

As his uncle played the ending chord, the boy looked up at him with quiet awe.

"And thus concludes Beethoven's _Quasi una fantasia_, second movement," Galen said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"You never told me you knew music."

Galen laughed softly. "In truth, I cannot read a single note."

"Then how did…?"

"Someone once taught it to me," Galen answered, absently glancing up in the direction of his brother's study. Rising from the bench, he stood and looked down at his nephew, assuming an encouraging grin.

"You are a far more talented musician than I—do not doubt of your abilities, Benoît. Someday, you will impress them all."

His nephew nodded, a hopeful smile breaking out across his face. Tousling the boy's hair one last time, Galen left the room, a servant opening the door for him to the awaiting carriage outside.

Adjusting his hat, the physician paused, glancing back over his shoulder. At the top of the stairs, the masked child looked on, his quiet gaze burning into Galen. The tacit question hung heavy in the air. Galen looked on hopelessly, the answer not even one he could give. The boy's eyes betrayed him—the look of abandonment undeniable. Unable to move, the physician watched the subtle nod, acceptance it its truest form. Letting out a long breath, Galen turned, departing to the noblest farewell he had ever received.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **

My apologies for the lengthy hiatus—finals and such put writing on hold. Once again, a warm thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Continuing on…

* * *

A lone candle burned on the desk. Aubert filed through an assortment of limp blueprints, the soggy paper tearing under his hands. The unexpected sleet that afternoon proved ruinous, the exposed papers subjugated to the resulting slurry of the construction environment, beyond salvage. 

Rubbing his eye with an ink-smeared hand, the architect brought out a piece of fresh paper, laying it out before him. He stared inertly at the blank page, cursing himself for having not made more copies. The construction of the opera house was already too far delayed with budget cuts, and further lack of direction could prove devastating. The plans had to be redrawn…and quickly.

Bending over the desk, the architect prepared himself for a long night.

* * *

He looked up as he heard the carriage door slam outside, quickly followed by the hurried greeting of a servant at the door. The trudging footsteps at the stairs confirmed his suspicion—his father had returned early. 

"Benoît, focus!"

The boy turned his gaze back to the book in front of him, avoiding the steady glare of his governess. She sighed, setting aside her needlepoint and refolding her hands. "Now read it to me."

Benoît stared blankly at the faded script, a hand kneading the gray fabric of his trousers. Shifting restlessly, his eyes moved to the vacant room across the hall. The large doors were parted just wide enough for him to catch a glimpse at the solemn piano in the corner.

He hated seeing the beautiful instrument remain isolated in the dark room, waiting in silence. Now that he knew what a voice it possessed, he longed to make it sing once more. The music stumbled under his untried hands, but he would learn…he would force himself to learn.

Someone swore softly upstairs, interrupting his thoughts. No doubt, his father was locked again in his office, absorbed in some detail of the opera house. He wondered how the man could have ever possessed a care for music…he certainly could afford no other love now. The boy almost grinned at the irony. Perhaps his uncle had been mistaken.

The sharp exhale brought the intended cringe. Tearing himself from his reverie, Benoît turned back to the book in front of him. He had not been allowed to move for hours, a prisoner to his studies. He was certain there were moments of glee revealed in his warden's dour countenance as she saw him suffer. Those rows of pure black and white keys called to him far more than any dulled lines of an old book, and she knew it. Her eyes narrowed. With a defeated sigh, Benoît opened his mouth to continue as a single, fleeting movement caught his attention.

His eyes drifted back to the other room, where a figure stood beside the piano, his back to Benoît. A muscle in the boy's cheek flinched. _So it was true_. He had thought it merely a strange rumor by the chattering servants, some foolish apparition for their amusement. Boyish intrigue of the stranger momentarily overrode the resentment of his maintained ignorance.

His small eyebrows knotted in confusion, Benoît stared at the shadowed profile. It was unearthly seamless, and so completely still, that for a moment, it seemed he gazed upon a darkened sculpture. Strands of dark hair draped over a perfectly aquiline forehead and nose, the smooth, elegantly carved cheekbone reflecting a gossamer shine.

Benoît's eyes narrowed suspiciously. No shadow hid a face _that_ darkly…

At the sound of his governess' cleared throat, he turned his attention back to the book—though only for a moment. Speaking a few lines by memory, his eyes shifted warily back to the room. The boy had moved around the piano, a stood before the awaiting keys, motionless. His hand was barely outstretched, suspended over the smooth, black and white surface.

Benoît's grip tightened on the book. The boy slowly pulled his hand back, his head turning a degree, meeting his observer's eyes. Benoît stilled under the intense stare, his mouth parting as the pale skin opposite the black mask was revealed.

Biting his lip, Benoît quickly cast his eyes back to the yellowed pages, his voice trembling. "…_But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all…_"

* * *

It was not yet noon before the opera's architect barged into his study, casting his coat and armful of rolled blueprints onto the desk. Making his way to the small table, he quickly poured himself a drink, closing his eyes as he swallowed the liquor. 

Setting down the glass, Aubert moved back to the desk and picked up one of the newly drawn blueprints, unrolling it. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the chaos of lines. In truth, the foreman and engineer's complaints had been justified—this copy was near illegible. His late night drafting had been utterly futile.

Muttering a curse, the architect swept an arm over the top of the desk, collapsing on the empty surface to bury his head in his hands. As far as he was concerned, the damned opera house could burn. He wanted no more of it. The drive that had once been so strong was all but vanquished.

After a few moments, Aubert stood, walking over the other side of the desk to survey the damage. With a frown, he knelt, righting the spilled inkbottle. His eyes followed the dark oval of black ink that had spilled onto the ruined copies.

With a sigh, the architect stood, facing the chair. His eyes fixated, he approached it slowly, picking up one of several neatly rolled sheets placed on the seat. Spreading it out before him, Aubert stared at the opera house, the lines drawn not of his own hand, but imitated with daunting care, every marking as sure as the original. His heart pounding, he picked up another, and another, all revealing the complex and beautiful innards of the structure he knew so well.

Holding one of the mysterious blueprints in his hand, Aubert moved down the hall, his mind awhirl. Lost in the foreign sensation of hope, he descended the stares, soaking up every meticulous stroke laid out on paper before him. He had long since dismissed faith in the Almighty, but perhaps the Almighty had not dismissed him. Perhaps he was not beyond the aid of some guardian angel…

Unconsciously, Aubert paused before the open doors to the darkened music room. Lowering the drawing, he looked at quiet figure standing before the piano, and approached slowly.

"Erik?" he said softly. The boy made no movement, his expression unreadable in the shadows. Aubert watched as the dark hazel eyes fell upon the blueprint in his hands. After a moment, the edge of the architect's mouth lifted. He no longer harbored any doubts as to the drawing's creator, though the very notion left him in awe.

He held the page back up, his eyes scanning over it. "How did you do this?"

After a long moment of silence, Aubert looked over the page at the boy. Erik stared intently at the rows of ebony and ivory keys. "I remembered."

"By memory? You did all this by memory?"

The child shook his head. "I used the soaked plans as reference."

Aubert eyes opened when even wider. Part of the reason his recreations were so deplorable, aside from the late hour, was for the abysmal state of the originals. After years of study, even he had struggled to decipher the ruined markings, memory blurring with age.

Carefully rolling up the blueprint, the architect stared into the deep black of the piano, lost in thought. He had already been impressed by the uncanny display of intuitiveness, but this was more than a brilliant mind. A prodigy stood before him, an incarnation of the aspirations he had once possessed for his own son.

Thus, he would accept him as one.

* * *

The drafting kit sat forsaken on a chair, unmoved since his birthday. The book resting before him forgotten, Benoît watched haplessly as his father picked up the kit. 

Rising, Benoît moved slowly toward the door, his eyes locked on the two figures in the other room.

"Benoît, what are you looking at? Come here, child!" his governess whispered sharply. He paid her no mind, stopping just behind the door, his small fingers wrapped around the frame. His governess' scolding voice faded into the back of his mind along with all other sounds, save each slow breath. Silently, he watched his father place the drafting kit in the other's hands, a rare smile painted across his features.

Despised tears threatened to well over. Leaning his head against the hard wood, Benoît whispered the remaining lines of the passage, his voice fading softer with each word.

"…_Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate; to me alike it deals eternal woe._"

* * *

Italicized verses from: Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Complete Poems. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. Book IV, lines 68-70. 

Aisling-Siobhan—You are going to make me start involuntarily twitching if I see the words "more soon" alone again…(just kidding with you). Thanks for reading.

WriterofAllAges—I have a lot to get through before Erik gets to the opera house—like all the other main characters. (Contrary to popular belief, this story was never intended be Erik's alone—I am going in chronological order—though this might be my undoing). And yes, I plan on continuing through the Phantom of the Opera story, though to fit the confines of the title, it may very well be the sequel.


	11. Chapter 11

**1857—Paris **

Benoît strode into the room, throwing the leather folder down upon the long table, the remaining sheets of music scattering across the smooth wood surface.

The visible eyebrow raised a degree, casually dismissing the irascible act. Lifting the sheet out of the way, his eyes fell back onto the book, and then back to the developing sketch beside it.

"Erik!"

There was a long sigh, and the young man looked up from his work. "Yes?"

Benoit glared at the poised face, catching the barest hint of his reflection in the dark surface, his image contorting on the false, unfeeling planes. Behind the ominous black mask, dark hazel eyes stared back, waiting.

"Where is the rest of it, Erik?"

The accused gave an elegant tilt of his head. "I have not the slightest inclination as to what you are referring to, Benoît."

Benoît could not help but pause as he heard his name spoken. There was no bitterness in the tone, no obvious threat…but even so, the smooth timbre of the voice, the gentle fall on the syllables never failed to unnerve him. If the spoken word could become music, it would be by this voice, and he hated to admit it.

"Look! Half the score is gone! How am I to practice if I don't have the cursed music!" His voice lowered a notch. "You are in that room more than anyone else."

Erik made no movement, his eyes darting from his accuser to the mess of sheets.

"Do you not see it?" There was no answer.

Benoît smirked. "Forgive me, I forgot that you still cannot read a single note."

He felt a small flame of triumph as he witnessed the rare twinge of emotion pass across his companion's face. Over the years, his father had seen that his beloved pet was equally trained in the same arts as his legitimate son. Erik had excelled in all tasks…save that of music. From the beginning, he would only stare blankly at the tiny black markings, lacking any noticeable comprehension of the phrases within. He refused to play an instrument, even after the bidding of countless tutors. It was an enigma, but after many frustrated sessions, they let him keep his silence.

Benoît's eyes narrowed. Undoubtedly, his father was pleased with Erik's inability in this one subject, forever bearing his incessant dislike of all things his true son did. Then again, it only served to affirm his real value. It was Erik and his abilities that his father wanted, needed. Music was of no importance to either of them. They shared a love for a world of beauty, but it was a world so unlike the one he desired. His could not be seen, but heard.

A page turned, snapping Benoit's attention to the artist before him. Even when Erik was not attending to matters at the opera house, he was secluded in some dark corner, poring over a volume that Benoît failed to grasp. His counterpart proved his superior in every other facet, and worse, he knew it.

Benoît frowned, hands clenched into loose fists.

Still, after all these years, Erik had said nothing, done nothing to assert his effortless dominance or his implicit proxy status. He simply was; unwittingly the strike that ignited the sparks of jealousy and loathing.

Benoit watched as Erik shifted his attention back to the book, his flawless posture somehow wilted a degree. The victory of the moment was stolen from Benoît in that proud, yet resigned movement, and even more so by the soft words that followed.

"As you pointed out, I would have no reason to take your music. I am truly sorry."

There was no lie in his tone, though Benoît hardly doubted that the voice that uttered such lovely sounds could tell equally beautiful mendacities. Sighing, he turned to leave the room.

"We shall miss your poignant serenading."

Benoit paused, his eyes darkening. Just as he drew a breath to retaliate, a servant entered, giving a short nod to both the young masters before he lay down the armful of sheathed swords on the far end of the table, recently polished. Erik did not bother to look up, absorbed in his work once more.

Benoît glared at him, the muscles of his jaw working. The servant eyes widened before he quickly exited the room, the door slamming behind him.

Erik simply continued his work as if there had been no interruption. He sat poised, long, elegant pale fingers following something on the page, his other hand at work with the pen and ink. Even in the most mundane actions, Erik demanded awe. And he received it. People saw him, though he was just an apprentice. His father _saw_ him. Benoît had yet to hear his father say one ill thing about his protégé. In all things, the young man was exceptional, and in all things, the rightful son was a failure, a subject of mediocrity.

"_Erik?"_

The call was distant, muffled, the low voice of his father reverberating from the other end of the house.

Without a word, the youth gracefully rose from his seat, clutching the sketch and book in his hand. Benoit grabbed one of the swords off the table. His mouth was flat, his eyes betraying his serious intent. Holding the blade in an attacking posture, he effectively blocked Erik's way.

"Benoît…"

Even at the sound of the other's voice, the raised blade did not waver in Benoît's grip, affirming the challenge.

Hazel eyes narrowing, Erik laid the book and sketch down, selecting an épée. Casually adjusting his grip on the handle, he stood opposite his challenger, left eyebrow raised. He did not strike a defensive pose, his countenance almost jaded. Tilting his head in confusion, Benoît lowered his blade a degree.

The force of the hit reverberated through the length of his arm.

Erik moved gracefully around him, watching Benoît through the dark mask, providing the chance of recovery. His anger flared, Benoît lunged at his opponent, his repeated blows deftly cast aside.

Not once did Erik attempt a point, but all the same, he was not trying to. Feet moving in perfect form, he moved silently over the floor, dodging furniture, deflecting the menacing blows all the while.

In a swift movement, Erik twisted his blade around the Benoît's, tearing it out of his grasp. With a light clatter, the rapier hit the ground some feet away.

His breathing rushed, Benoît swallowed. Erik lowered his épée, his gaze steady. "_Enough_."

Benoît could not fight the stern command.

"Erik!" His father appeared in the doorway. "Oh, there you are." Erik gave a slight nod, his appearance devoid of any telling sign of the recent contest. Benoît scowled; the épée had mysteriously vanished from Erik's person.

His father continued, failing to cast even a single glance at his son. "The carriage is waiting outside."

His eyes sparkled as he regarded the youth. The corner of his mouth lifted, and he left the room.

Erik moved back to the table, the épée in his hands once more. Carefully, he laid it down with the other swords before picking up his own things.

He paused at the door and glanced back, remaining silent. Benoît looked away from the threatening mask, blind to the sad gaze behind it.

* * *

**Author's note:**

First, please let me apologize for the rather deplorable mistakes in the last chapter (and likely the preceding chapters as well). While I read through chapters over and over again, inevitably I will always miss something. However, I will do my best to be diligent as possible in making them flawless.

I was very apprehensive about jumping so far into the future—and no chapter I write is beyond revision. That being said (author cues music):

**:clears throat:** "**_Readers of Prelude, speak, I listen! Stay by my side, guide me! Readers, your words I seek, indulge me…write away dear readers!" _**

Hehe—thank God I am not a poet, yes? ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:**

Here at last is the chapter where I fear this structure of this story might come crashing to my feet, but please bear with me, as eventually, all events will coincide. Again, thank you to all readers and reviewers!

* * *

**1857— Perros-Guirec**

The sun was fast fading beneath the line of the gray sea. Clouds that normally concealed the splendor gently reflected the gold and crimson hues, the dark gray of night threatening to close in.

He stood at the window, fingers pressed against the immense glass pane, blue eyes following the decline of the colors, shadows drawing nearer with each slow breath. He did not want the evening to come…

Yet he could not fight it.

A hand rested on his shoulder. The boy looked up into his brother's handsome, distraught face, his lower lip quivering as he bravely fought the impending tears.

With a bowed head, he followed Philippe from the huge room to the candlelit passages beyond. Every step fell heavier than the one before it, echoing through the expansive hallway. At length, they stood before the ominous bedroom doors. The boy nodded, and his brother pushed open the door, allowing him through.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light—the shadows of the room far darker than those of the hall.

Several others hovered in the room, standing or seated around the immense canopied bed. The quiet whispers faded as they caught sight of the small figure entering. The boy lowered his head, the weight of the silence overwhelming.

"I would like a moment alone with him…please," the haggard voice whispered, scarcely reminiscent its former strength. Gazes turned toward the figure in the great bed, sitting against the mound of pillows. With quiet murmurs, they obeyed him, exiting one by one.

Philippe leaned down by his ear. "I will wait outside." When the door at last closed, the boy stood alone, biting his lip.

"Are you afraid?"

With great hesitance, the boy nodded, a tear falling down his face.

"There is nothing to fear." The voice was stronger now, comforting. Forgetting himself, the boy ran to the bed and threw himself into the open arms.

"Father..."

The man leaned his cheek against the auburn head, a quiet sigh escaping him.

"Please don't leave us," the child whispered into his father's shirt.

The man kissed the top of his son's head. "I believe it is in God's hands now."

The child was silent for a long time, listening to the dim heartbeat beneath him. "Will you be alone?"

His father shifted so he could see the small face, his light azure eyes reflected in his son's.

"No…no I will not."

The boy nodded, looking down. His father pulled him close again, pressing his cheek harder against the soft hair, closing his eyes at the memory.

_Like all fathers, he had been banished to the hall, forced to wait and listen to the painful moans coming from behind the door. After three children, he had learned the futility of pacing. Instead, he leaned against the ornate doorframe, earning fleeting glances by passing servants. _

_There was another muffled gasp, followed by the low urges of the doctor. Silence followed, so sudden that he held his breath. There was no cry, no gasping pant of his wife…the stillness was suffocating. He lifted his head out of his hands, eyebrows knit. His eldest son smiled weakly at him, standing protectively with his two younger sisters. _

_They all jumped as the midwife appeared through a cracked door. She drew in her breath and gave him a polite nod. Her round face was flushed, her eyes wide. "Monsieur, the doctor wishes to see you."_

"_Is she well?"_

_The midwife looked down at the floor. Heart pounding, he moved past her into the dark room. The curtains were drawn, the air rank with the smell of blood and sweat. The Comtesse lay against the pillows, her eyes closed, lips just barely parted. Her husband moved past the doctor, taking her clammy hand in his own. He shot a quick, pleading glance at the doctor. The older man cleared his throat. "Come with me, Monsieur." Reluctantly, he left his wife's bedside. The doctor stopping in the adjacent room, letting out a long sigh. "It was a difficult labor, Monsieur…very difficult." He paused. "Your wife is far more advanced in age than most young mothers…"_

_The Comte nodded resignedly. With their son already in his twentieth year, it had been an unexpected, but welcomed surprise when he had learned his wife was carrying another child. But she was so frail… _

"_What can be done?" _

_The doctor shook his head. "I am sorry."_

_The Comte closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to compose himself. "And the child?" he asked softly. The doctor's reply was interrupted as the midwife appeared at the door. _

"_She has woken. She asks for you." _

_The doctor summoned her into the room. "Show him." The midwife hesitated and then silently left the room, only to return a short time later with the white bundle cradled in her arms. _

_Swallowing, the Comte pulled down a cloth, his eyes sweeping over the tiny form in her arms. "A boy…why, he is not even cleaned…"_

_The midwife swallowed, turning her eyes from the newborn to his father. "There was no cry…" she whispered, flashing a distraught glance at the Comte. _

_He did not move, gazing at the small, still form in her arms. What punishment was this for God to take back his last child and leave a wife clinging to life? He clenched his jaw tighter, and gave a brief, accepting nod the midwife. _

_Moving past her, he moved out of the room and went to his wife's bedside. Gingerly taking a seat, he took his beloved's hand in his own. Her eyes opened and she flashed him a weak grin of recognition. "Philibert…"_

_His other hand reached down to stroke her pale cheek. Strands of dark hair were plastered against the damp forehead, the unlined skin nearly as pale as the child he had just beheld. Her chest barely rose with her shallow breaths, the thin sheets still bearing evidence of the birth. She stirred as he tenderly brushed aside the hair from her face. Even now, she was still so beautiful…_

"_I am here," he told her softly._

_She looked up at him, concern obvious on her face. "Is the baby well?" _

_The Comte closed his eyes, letting out a trembling breath before slowly nodding. "He is."_

_Her lips broke into a frail smile. "A son..."_

_He nodded again, his hand moving across her cheek. "Yes."_

"_He will be strong, Philibert."_

_The Comte was silent. His wife closed her eyes again, sinking back into the pillows, her skin cooler underneath his hand. _

"_He will be," came the soft lie. Turning away from her, he stared into the shadows. He despised the terrible and kind deceit, the only comfort that could be afforded to his dying beloved. She did not deserve this. Closing his eyes, he cursed and pleaded to God. _

_The touch was light, gentle, drawing him from his pained thoughts. He looked back at his wife, savoring the feel of her hand caressing his cheek. She smiled weakly at him, her gaze sad. _

"_May I kiss him goodbye?"_

_The Comte could not deny her. Summoning the midwife, the blanketed newborn was laid in his mother's arms, the dark concealing his son's color. The Comtesse leaned down, trembling, her lips brushing against the soft head._

_The baby cried. _

"Will you see mother?"

His father sighed, torn from his reverie. "Yes, I will be with her once more."

He shifted, holding his son at arms length. "Even before she saw you, she knew you would be strong. Your mother was right."

The boy looked away from his father's gaze. "I don't want to be…" he whispered miserably.

His father smiled weakly. "Have courage, Raoul," he said, giving into the weariness that settled in on him. His son moved closer, wrapping his small arms around his father's wasted body. The boy listened to the dim beat within his father's chest, so slow and steady…until there was no beat at all.

Pulling back, he looked through horrified eyes at his father's placid face. "Père!"

The door flung open, his brother running to the bedside.

"God, no! Father…"

Closing his eyes, Philippe fell to his knees, pressing the pale, wrinkled hand between his own. Bowing his head, he could no longer hold back his sobs. He did not feel the small hand of his brother rest upon his shoulder.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note:**

The opera house in this work is not honestly intended to be the real Paris Opera House, though the details of real place definitely inspired those revealed in this chapter. My biggest reason for this being that I have altered quite a few dates. The real Paris Opera House would not have been started—much less completed—in 1857. While I strive to maintain some historical accuracy, I still ask the reader's leniency, as I have bent more than one historical truth to fit the confines of this story.

Much thanks goes to my mom, who played temporary beta for this chapter and the preceding one.

Continuing on…

* * *

Despite the nearing evening, a mass of peoples and creatures adorned the streets of Paris. Casually, she looked over them; gentlemen with their top hats and canes, announcing their station with every stride; a poor mother with an infant propped against one hip while the other siblings trailing behind were scolded; the miserable appearance of a prostitute before she disappeared into a darkened alley.

Jaclyn Gardnier turned her eyes away, staring once more at the black velvet interior of the carriage. Leaning back against the seat, her gaze shifted to the gentleman seated across from her. Attractively dressed, the man was shuffling through an assortment of letters, unnoticing the critical stare from beneath the hat brim. She gave a wry smirk. He certainly had been more attentive after last night's party, though drink and beauty never failed to be a heady combination, and one she never failed to use to her advantage.

The _advocat_ glanced up from his papers, reaching a hand to playfully caress her gloved one. Sighing, she allowed him this. The boy was young, handsome…but there were hundreds of such gentlemen in Paris. The only element that set this one apart, and consequently made him all the more similar, was his youthful boldness. He thrilled her, lavishing forbidden touches and words within in the very heart of society.

She had once longed for position. Marrying the brilliant, promising architect guaranteed her such ascension, while the status of authority and the rumored majesty of the opera house had only secured it. Even so, the thrill of winning envy and respect did not maintain the grip on her that it once held. The young_ advocat_ offered her a world far away and yet still within the confines of the one she could not live without.

"Shall I be expecting you later?" the young man purred, easing down her silk glove to trace the pale skin with his lips. Jaclyn drew away from his touch, the carriage stopping in front of the large house.

"No, I suspect not." Her voice was cool, biting. She repressed a smirk at her young suitor's dismayed expression.

Pushing open the door, she had barely stepped out of the carriage before a firm hand grasped her arm. "Jaclyn, dear, please…I am sorry I was so preoccupied with these mindless papers..."

She felt his hot breath along her neck.

"You are too daring," she whispered, tilting her head to look back at him, the glimmer in her eyes unmistakable. He smiled.

* * *

Erik ran a hand over the smooth banister as he ascended the stairwell, a fragile smile crossing over the normally solemn countenance.

It had been a surprisingly quiet morning, the normal racket of the laborers and artisans at the opera house diminishing as the final details were being completed. The opulent, complex idea once restricted to paper was now a real edifice, a testament to beauty and human ingenuity.

He walked alone now, savoring the quiet, his sharp eyes moving across every detail, like a proud parent elated by their child's triumph. This place was Gardnier's vision, to be sure, but there were many elements—far more than the ignorant visitor would ever know—that were not born of the great architect's hand. The details of the sweeping majesty of the escalier, the staircase leading to the grand foyer, the additions of countless rooms and entryways, the towering backstage and the dizzying tangle of levels and catwalks, the celestial figures that graced that roof…

The opera house was _his_ artistic domain, a portrait of white stone, marble and gilded bronze, all stunning to behold. This place would never be forgotten, even as its creator would be…

He walked through the foyer, opening into the loggia, the double columns flanking the elegant French windows and topped by busts of composers. He eyed the cold marble faces, absently recalling the various melodies of the departed musicians.

Gardnier had been well informed of these additions, most of the work drawn in Erik's own sprawling script. There was hardly a day that passed when the architect did not refer to the masked youth at his side, asking his opinion, or referring a confused engineer or foreman to hear the boy's calm, precise directions. They listened without question, not only for the accurate vision the youth possessed, the authoritative and teaching aura that abounded, the daunting genius that existed behind the impassive mask in those quiet, watching eyes.

He moved silently through the backstage, the laborers unaware of his presence as he slipped by them, the shadows his faithful cloak. Those few, miserable years on the streets of Paris had served him well, the gift of remaining unseen when needed, the ability to deceive unsuspecting eyes never lost to him.

As the years had progressed, he was no longer the strange, masked boy at Gardnier's side. The whispers were still there—they would always be there, but in place of skepticism was a strange respect. Erik smirked. Yet it was a respect surely born out of fear.

He moved without question, seeing through the dark and the dust, past the sounds of the men and their work, lost in his thoughts. At length, he paused, stopping before an entrance, a pale beam of light from high above illuminating it.

Even after all these years, he had avoided this place and the depths to which it led. Every column and support, every wall…the water that seeped around the cold stone…

He knew and hated that place, once his tomb.

Without a word, he turned, climbing to the higher levels, eager to forget it.

* * *

Benoît sat at the piano bench, staring blankly at the keys. His music instructor had come that morning, furious to find that the music he procured for his student was lost…again. Benoît had sat in miserable silence and endured the lecture, keeping his air of indifference even while the teacher stormed out of the house, swearing never to return.

Now, in the silence of the grand house, he waited, eyes forcibly riveted to the ivory and black surface. His only comfort resided in those colorless keys. They responded to his will without question, giving him the voice that he would never possess otherwise. He knew the technicalities of every song presented; he could plunge through the difficult runs, grueling tempos and key changes, and yet no one noticed. No one ever noticed.

Except Erik.

Benoît almost felt ashamed at the small amount of glee he felt as he played, recalling his father's protégé looking on. Music appeared the one endeavor in which Erik was a failure, and yet he knew his masked companion listened, though to what extent, he was not sure. Even so, there were moments of recognizable comprehension and longing in those dark eyes, hidden…

Benoît placed his fingers on the keys, relishing the cold, smooth surface. Over and over, he had witnessed Erik in this room, never touching the piano, but always lingering. There were times when he was certain he saw the smallest movement of the long fingers as he played, mimicking his own.

Slamming the lid shut, he stood, doubt gnawing at him. He heard the familiar sound of a carriage halting outside the house. Moving to the window, Benoît just parted the heavy curtains, his gaze falling upon his mother's tall, beautiful frame as she stepped out of the carriage. Uninterested, he turned away, pausing at the last moment as a movement caught his attention.

His mother's head turned, tilting to glance back at the gentleman behind her. Benoît's eyebrows twisted in confusion. Surely his father had not abandoned the opera house for an outing…

She kissed the stranger passionately. Benoît's hand fell from the curtains and he stumbled back from the window, his stomach in knots. The moment played over and over in his mind, logic and hope pitted against each other. Yet all the while, he knew the truth. Bile threatened to rise in his throat, its loathsome taste hardly equaling that of the disgust that seethed through him. He hated her, but even more, he hated the cursed opera house, the very thing that had kept his father away…

Benoît moved slowly from the room, refusing to acknowledge his mother's pristine form as she stepped into the foyer. The maid curtsied, taking her wrap from her. Jaclyn watched Benoît with a raised brow as he moved wordlessly past them both.

"Are proper manners even beyond you, Benoît?" her cool voice intoned after him.

Benoît paused, slowly turning his eyes upon her, a muscle in his jaw shifting. The silence was deafening between the two, the accusation in his gaze burning. After a moment, Jaclyn turned her eyes away, swallowing, barely registering the quiet footsteps of her son as he went up the stairs.

Tilting her chin up again, the mistress of the house flashed an icy glance at the waiting maid. "And what vexes him?" she asked, languidly pulling off one silken glove at a time.

The maid's eyes remained fixed upon the floor. "I do not know, Madame."

Jaclyn frowned. "Very well. Hurry and prepare me a hot bath."

The maid quickly curtsied again and left her.

* * *

It was long after dark before she heard the carriage ease to a stop, followed by the recognizable traipse of her husband dimly echoing along the cobblestone path.

Jaclyn walked slowly down the stairs, watching as her husband entered the house. She took a step toward him, the smile painted on her face leveling as she observed the faint dust coating his waistcoat and trousers.

"Ah, Jaclyn! Good evening!" He climbed up a step, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. She raised her hands to keep the dusty clothes away from her.

"You are in an uncommonly good mood, my dear," she said, tilting her head away. Aubert grinned, the deep circles under his eyes almost unnoticeable. "Indeed. Erik commented…"

He spun his head around, grinning anew as the apprentice walked into the foyer from outside, gracefully shrugging off the double-breasted frock coat. He glanced up at his name, giving a polite bow in Jaclyn's direction.

"Madame," he said, the tone even and soft to the ear.

Aubert raised an arm for her. "As I was saying, Erik commented on how well the last stages of the construction of going. By the end of the year it will be complete."

She gave him a weak smile. "That is pleasing news," she said vacantly, her eyes drifting back to the apprentice.

Taking her husband's proffered arm, she raised her chin up a degree. "You will join us in the sitting room, won't you?" she asked. The youth gave another polite nod. "Certainly, but after a change of clothes. If you will excuse me..."

Erik moved past them. Jaclyn's eyes narrowed as they moved over his lean form, watching his measured, smooth strides. The apprentice could not have been much older than her own son, though his striking appearance betrayed him. He towered over Benoît, in every way lacking the clumsy, ill-proportioned body of males his age. If he was plagued by the trials of youth, he hid it well.

Then again, she thought, following her husband into the elegant room, it was not difficult to hide when one wore a mask…

* * *

"Mere months within completion! Can you believe it, Jaclyn?"

She gave him a tight smile, absently smoothing out her flowing velvet skirts. "It will be a great reward for your years of hard work, Aubert. Though the rumored opulence will prove meaningless if the singers are stage are of poor caliber."

Aubert took another sip of his wine, his knuckles whitening with his grip on the glass.

Erik leaned forward a degree, his gaze steady upon Jaclyn. "I have little doubt that Paris would allow any less than the finest upon her stage."

She gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps."

Aubert lowered his drink, gesturing toward Erik. "He's right, you know."

Jaclyn raised an eyebrow at the apprentice. "Well, isn't that always the case?"

Erik's eyes darkened, yet he made no other moment at her provoking comment. Jaclyn continued.

"Already, I hear talk of a great Spanish singer arriving in Paris—La Carlotta Castello. No doubt she will bring triumph to the stage, if she is willing to sing for us."

"On the contrary, I have heard her voice can be quite grating, though thus far I have been denied the pleasure of hearing it," Erik commented, his voice a shade lower than before.

Jaclyn smirked. "And what would you know of fine music?"

He glared at her, firm restraint visible across his features. "Enough to enjoy the opera, Madame," he replied at length.

"Given your background, I am rather surprised."

Aubert's set his glass down loudly. "Jaclyn, please! Can we not be civil?"

She smiled at her husband. "It was merely an observation. Architect or no, one cannot appreciate the opera without a passion or familiarity with its art. He would feel ill at place there."

Erik tilted his head a fraction. "An astute comment, Madame, but hardly true in my situation. I hold a great respect for art in all its forms."

"Even so," she continued, "I cannot expect that you would feel comfortable among the most prominent Parisians. After all, the opera is intended for the enjoyment of the noble." She watched the deep hazel eyes burn with irritation, and yet he made no move.

Aubert took a large sip of wine.

The corner of Erik's mouth pulled upwards a degree as he regarded Jaclyn. "I can assure you, Madame, that I will make my best effort to enjoy the opera despite its company."

"And how might you do that, _Erik_?" she inquired, her tone poisonous.

He paused, his expression amused. "From my box seat."


	14. Chapter 14

**1857— Perros-Guirec**

She pulled the black veil closer about her, the sheer material flailing in the biting wind. Offering a weak smile, Philippe wrapped an arm around his sister, sheltering her from the cold.

But for the grief they all carried, for the shed and unshed tears, he could do nothing.

The mausoleum stood silently before them, its chiseled marble and stone an elegant and grim reminder of their father's passing. Two months past their father had been laid to rest, the longest weeks in Philippe's recollection. The household remained deep in mourning, all too silent, all too cheerless. It was little different than the quiet cemetery where they stood now.

Philippe shifted his gaze over to his younger brother, standing apart from them, his eyes trained to the twin statues guarding the entrance of the mausoleum.

They were angels, hooded and tall, resting at opposite ends. The artist had crafted them well, instilling remarkable detail to the bowed heads, the downcast eyes. Lifelike hands folded over the hilts of their swords, eternal protectors of this somber place.

Philippe turned his gaze to one of the smooth, perfect stone faces, so tranquil…

He longed to feel that again, though the desire seemed beyond reach or hope.

Just over his thirtieth year, Philippe had been his father's loyal right hand in all matters. Ostensibly, he was well-prepared for the endeavor that would be his, but with his father's calm influence and knowledge gone, he finally realized the full weight of his responsibilities. For all the spiteful and ignorant things spoken of the affluent and powerful, it was unthinkably lonely at the summit. Now more than ever, he faced the burdens associated with his new title, le Comte de Chagny, head of one of France's most distinguished households, responsible for the fortune and holdings so carefully built by his forefathers.

He sighed, glancing over at Raoul. For all his troubles, the brunt of the task he now faced hardly seemed to compare to that which his younger brother endured. The boy had been silent these last two months, a ghost in the house, going about his studies without will, incarnate of the grief that they all shared, though perhaps none so deeply. All the while, there were no tears or self-pity synonymous with children of his age and class.

In a dreadful moment of recall, Philippe saw his father's face, handsome even in old age, the strong and proud bearing replaced with a tender one when among his children. Yet in those last years, those times had become so few. With their father's continued illness, more and more days were spent bedridden, only his closest associates disturbing him. His youngest son certainly was not among the privileged few, though his father adored him no less. Perhaps it was the tragic circumstances that brought him into the world, pain and thankfulness entwined. Raised largely by servants and doting siblings, the boy had gravitated to the only parent he would ever know.

Philippe squeezed the shoulder of his sister, giving her a nod that it was time to leave. With a resigned glance at the carved marble and stone, she turned away, walking resolutely towards the waiting carriage.

"Raoul?"

The boy's head turned at the call of his older brother. Obediently, he started forward, hesitating in mid step. Without explanation, he looked back at the silent statues.

Eyebrow raised, Philippe watched Raoul curiously, the boy's name on his tongue. Yet before he could speak a word, they both heard the far-off strains of a violin, whispering just above the hum of the wind. Quietly, it sang, melancholy and distant, speaking of things words could never tell.

The eldest de Chagny did not move, enraptured by the foreign song. When he finally looked down, his brother was beside him, his expression intense but somehow relieved. They exited the cemetery together, ushered by the sorrowful melody…the voice of an angel.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I relish feedback—positive and negative. It is the only way I might improve. I know the pace of this story has slowed down significantly, but there are a lot of complexities I am trying to work through, and I ask your patience. To all those who have followed this story, you have my gratitude.

A thank you goes out to my Mom who once again played temporary beta for me.


	15. Chapter 15

**Paris—**

He had waited in the darkness, eyelids heavy with desire for rest. Shivering, he wrapped his thin arms tighter around his legs, keeping watch on the shadows.

She had been gone since the night before, leaving no word of her return. His stomach ached with hunger, though he dare not move from his place on the floor. Perhaps she would return with food. Perhaps she would share this time…

He blinked as the door opened, allowing the frail glow of the night into the dark room. The cloaked form entered, pale clouds of breath vanishing before her as she moved. She leaned back against the mottled wooden frame, closing it as her hands went up to her arms to rub them, easing warmth back in. Her gaze turned toward his huddling form.

She never knew how well he could see through the darkness, how he noticed every detail—the tangled, damp blonde strands hanging over her shoulders, how the once flawless white skin was marked with red along her jaw and neck, the ragged tear in the collar of her dress…

Her breathing was rushed, straining against the cold, moist air, mimicking his own. He dropped his gaze away. Despite the negligence, the harsh beatings, the scarce nourishment, he wished for nothing more than to see her content.

After a moment, she pushed herself away from the door, drawing out a small loaf of bread from beneath the cloak. Setting it upon the table, her gaze shifted, finding his huddled form upon the floor.

The air was thick between them, mother and son, angel and demon regarding each other in silence.

Very slowly, she approached him, kneeling, blue eyes never leaving his. She did not smile, she never smiled…and yet, she did not have to, not at this moment.

A tentative hand reached out toward him, disturbing the stillness between them. He held his breath, only the weak beat of his heart heard in his ears.

"_Erik…"_

He closed his eyes at the sound… unusually gentle, tasting his name. He felt the light touch at the side of his head, running through his hair, slowly tracing around the mask.

_No, it had never been like this…she had hated touching him…_

The words were drowned out as he relished the foreign sensation, the caress that he had never known…

"Mother!"

Erik's eyes snapped open.

* * *

Jaclyn pulled aside the heavy curtains of her room, peering out into the shadows of the evening. Throwing a quick glance at the clock, she smiled as she heard the reassuring sound of carriage wheels against the street, halting under a street lamp before their house. For lacking vigilance, her suitor certainly was punctual.

Shooing away the maid, Jaclyn slipped a hand into her glove, the yards of rich fabric trailing over the stairs behind her. She moved with grace, a portrait of a silk-clad lady, striking to behold.

The house was still, her husband locked away in his study, her son…somewhere. A small pang of regret filled her, quickly suppressed by apprehension. The look in his eyes as he had greeted her those few days ago—_he knew_. He could ruin her with one word to her husband. Aubert was not a brave man by any circumstances, but he would have little reason to support an adulterous wife. She would be cast to the streets, humiliated and rejected.

Shuddering, she pushed the thought away. Jaclyn's hand wavered just above the handle to the door, her lover waiting in the darkness. Closing her eyes, she drew it back, the silk-covered fingers balled into a fist. With a sigh, she turned, looking down the wide, candle-lit hall. She moved slowly through it, the shadows surrounding her, greeting her. The lady saw the elegant carvings never noticed before, flowers arranged on ornate tables, tall oil paintings adorning the walls. This life, this place was her prison, but a magnificent one, nonetheless.

She paused, eyes falling to the vase of dying roses. Once a brilliant red, they faded to a deeper color, like blood exposed to air. She reached out, several petals falling to the table at her touch. Even deformed, the remaining flower was strangely alluring. All alone, Jaclyn closed her eyes, drawing in the lingering, fragile scent.

All these things would be foreign to her if the pretense were shattered. It was an unfortunate fate that her own son could be the element to bring about her end. For just a moment, the painted lips fell into a grim frown. Letting out a slow breath, she drew herself up, the cool countenance returned. Years spent among the rich and powerful had taught her a brilliant and necessary means of survival: _ruin adversity without conscience_.

The lesson would not fail her now.

Jaclyn turned back toward the door and the evening's promise.

* * *

She did not return until that morning, but with the rampant evening parties, her absence could hardly be viewed as amiss. The house was as quiet as when she left it, the air heavy and damp. A chill lingered along the base of her neck. Had the foolish boy spoken?

She moved slowly to the music room, her gaze condemning even while her pulse throbbed wildly beneath the pale skin. She could almost see her son seated at the piano as he had been so many times before, intent on solving a difficult passage while his father seethed upstairs with every passing note.

Pausing at the doorway, a quiet sigh escaped past her lips. The youth's long form was angled over the settee, chest rising and falling softly under an open book. Jaclyn stepped forward, moving silently until she was only feet away from the sleeping figure.

Benoît paled in comparison with this boy.

She had made a point of ignoring his presence over the years even while her husband adored him, unnerved by the watching eyes, his silence. Jaclyn watched the youth steadily, admiring the flawless mask and its handsome counterpart.

Dressed in all the gentlemanly spender of the times, he truly was a remarkable sight. Gone was the filthy youth Galen must have brought in, replaced by a youth appearing to have far outgrown his limited years. Sleep had slightly ruffled the normally pristinely slicked dark hair, leaving a few unruly strands hanging across his forehead, brushing the thick eyelashes. Broad shoulders tapered into a lean waist, long legs resting against the plush material of the settee. She had never been a more willing intruder as in that moment, standing over him.

The apprentice's hands lay protectively over the book, uncommonly long and pallid. The hands of an artist, she mused, entranced by the twisting of the blue veins beneath the skin, almost like a portrait in their perfection. Heart pounding, she pulled off a glove, her hand perched above his own.

He shuddered, the side of his face looked almost pained for a moment. Jaclyn pulled her hand back a degree, watching for signs of waking. After a moment, he was still, lost again in sleep's illusions. Her boldness returned, Jaclyn brought her hand forward again, brushing the arched brow, the smooth cut of his cheekbone and jaw covered by light marble skin.

He was so young…so terribly young, but his enigmatic presence weighed upon her like no other had before. In a life filled with such dreary, mundane creatures, the apprentice was a rarity.

"Erik…" 

It was an unexpected admittance, spoken with forbidden desire. Erik's breath was cool against her hand, relaxed, relishing the unseen touch. Her fingers moved almost of their own accord, greedily, bypassing the curved lips until they reached the cool surface of the dark mask. Jaclyn paused. In all his years within their home, she had never seen him without it. Aubert had mentioned no word as to its necessity. The mask was not a questioned thing, merely accepted.

Her fingers rested at the mask's smooth edge.

"Mother!"

Jaclyn drew her hand away, the hazel eyes upon her at once. Erik reared back, the book fallen to the floor, his hand reaching for the mask. Jaclyn closed her mouth, smiling weakly at Benoît before hurriedly exiting the room. Erik's fingers rested against the black surface in a reassuring action, his breath quickened.

Benoît looked back the disheveled apprentice, a frown crossing his features.

He did not say a word, but the message was clear.

_Beware…_

* * *

**Author's note:**

That scene was rather fun to write. Once again, I must thank my Mom for playing beta for me. And now for some responses to readers:

**I am the Angel of Music****and AislingSiobhan** **—**When I initially posted the chapters, I completely forgot to add in locations for that bit with Raoul and his siblings, something that I have now amended. I hope sheds light on your question.

**Angels-Sleep-In-Hell—**Thank you very much for your reviews! Yes, I very much enjoying foreshadowing in this story.

**Maggie—**Thank you for reading! I am gratified that you like this version of Erik.

**Wendela—**Thank you for your wonderful, thoughtful review. You brought up several questions/comments that I think readers deserve to know on a whole, which I have answered in my profile.

**Modesty--**As always, thank you for being such a loyal reader and reviewer!

—Readers, thank you for putting up with the numerous ambiguities of this story and my failings with it. This is my first attempt at writing something of this scale—and while it will not be perfect, I will do the best I can. I appreciate you all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:**

I am not entirely pleased with how this chapter turned out, but after several revisions, it is the best it is going to get for the time being. Now for some quick responses to reviewers:

**aeipathy**—You never fail to encourage me. Thank you so much for your thoughtful reviews.

**Angels-Sleep-In-Hell**— I did in fact answer your question regarding ages, just not directly. ;) Check my profile for the Q/A.

**wendela**—Thank you so much for reading. I do hope you update your story soon!

**ModestySparrow9**—I always look forward to what you have to say. Thank you for reading this story and so loyally responding.

**Maggie**—Your comment made me smile. Kay handles things a little differently, doesn't she? ;)

**Moonjava**—Thanks for reading! I appreciate it. I hope this chapter is acceptable as well.

Shall we?

* * *

It was early evening, born to the steady clip of hooves against wet cobblestone streets and air thick with fog. Only the newly lit lamps challenged the evening's supremacy, casting an eerie glow through the misty night. At times the fog would clear for a moment, allowing the passersby to catch the briefest glimpse of a couple moving languidly through the park, though the sight, common enough in the evening, was just as readily dismissed. Both dressed in high fashion, the lady's hand rested lightly on her partner's arm.

Pausing at a bench, the couple sat, the woman staring uncomfortably off into the distance. The young _avocat_ raised a gloved hand, stroking the lady's cheek. "What is it, Jaclyn? You have been silent all evening." She shuddered, closing her eyes a moment.

"My son…he knows," she whispered, looking over at her suitor, "it is only a matter of time before everyone else does."

He laughed, running his hand down the length of her arm until it rested over her hand. He stroked it absently, smiling at her. "No one will believe a mere boy."

She shook her head. "Things are not so simple."

Her suitor stopped his gentle ministration, sighing. "Jaclyn, it can be. Leave him! Leave before any word gets out." The young man leaned closer, taking her hand between his own, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "Come with me…far from this place. I will deny you nothing."

The woman stiffened, his words chilling her, her heart thudding beneath the silken bodice. To leave this city, its stuffy company, its great beauties and filth; she could not deny the appeal. To be somewhere new, having the thrill of starting new life and a doting companion rather than a cold, work-driven one…

Jaclyn stared at the young man's striking face, Aubert's countenance flashing before her. She could not deny that there were times, rare moments when she had felt the twinge of jealousy when her husband never looked to her, lost in his work, listening to the voice of a mere child. Revelry quickly drowned out any such pain, the illicit relations her unspoken vengeance, yet nothing had changed. Exchanged for a stranger, she would no longer suffer it.

_Erik._ Her heart did not cease its quickened rhythm at the thought of the youth, the memory of her fingers against his cool mask, the enticing, troubled nature of his sleep and the fierce, restrained anger when he woke. It still stole her breath.

Jaclyn looked away, biting her lip and she listened to the steady breath of her companion. Could he even suspect her torment? Was he so oblivious to the dangerous line she walked, the position she placed him in, his shallow purpose? Jaclyn had to resist a smirk. There were so few instances in her life where men were not a means to an end. Aubert won her position in society, Benoît offered her achievement of motherhood, and Erik…

Her eyes lit up. She saw it on her son's face, on her husband's every time he spoke of his apprentice. That boy was like a son. _Aubert would never bring himself to part with him._

Jaclyn pressed to her chest, her lips almost a grin. At last, her husband's swayed loyalties would serve her. Her lover may have offered her freedom, but Erik could secure it.

Sighing, the _avocat_ moved closer to her. "Jaclyn, this is what you wanted," he purred, the calm tones washing over her.

She turned and smiled at him. "It is."

* * *

Husband and wife sat alone at opposite ends of the long dinner table, ornate candles lighting the distance between them.

A servant pushed open the doors, serving the couple with practiced efficiency. Jaclyn stared crossly at the steaming food placed before her. Another servant came forward and refilled the crystal wine glass, bowing nervously.

"Where is my son?" she demanded, glaring at the girl. "Master Benoît refuses to attend, Madame," the servant mumbled, wringing her hands in her skirt. Jaclyn's lips pressed together. "Very well. Leave us," she commanded, waving the girl away.

Across the table, her husband quietly thanked the other servant. Scanning over letters piled to one side, he simultaneously began to cut into the meat.

Jaclyn narrowed her eyes, picking up the wine glass. "I do not know what is the matter with him."

Absentmindedly, Aubert looked up. "With whom, my dear?"

The wine glass slammed back on the table, red liquid sloshing over the brim onto the pristine white tablecloth.

"Your son, Aubert!"

He shrugged, looking down at his plate while cutting. "It is only his age, Jaclyn; it will pass."

"Are you blind, Aubert? His behavior has changed so radically that I can hardly stand being under the same roof!"

"But you are rarely home anyway, my dear."

Jaclyn's jaw tightened as she regarded her husband. He chewed his meal quietly, focused on the letters once again.

"I have seen enough," she replied stiffly. "Between my son's moroseness and your apprentice's absurd idiosyncrasies, I will be driven mad."

Aubert paused at the mention of Erik, resting his silverware on the plate's edge. "Jaclyn," he began, looking up slightly, "there is no reason to overreact."

She glared at him. "I have every reason! For years I have endured your long absences, nights alone while you slave over your drawings, that damned apprentice…"

"Erik is no—"

"He is, Aubert! Don't you see what he has done to you? To our son? You are blind to all else but your lofty visions for that opera house and that masked boy!"

"Jaclyn, how can you say such things? You wanted me to take on this project! This opera house will never be forgotten—_we_ will never be forgotten. Isn't that what you wanted?" Aubert stared at her, muddled dismay and confusion ridden across his features. Jaclyn fought the bout of sympathy that stung at her, ignoring the aggrieved look in her husband's eyes.

"At what price, Aubert?" she replied, her voice frigid. "You've alienated your son, forgotten your wife. And all the while, that _boy—_he was the only one you ever saw—the only one you still see."

"Jaclyn, that is not true…"

"How is it not, Aubert? This masked wretch from the streets entered our home, took up residence, insulting our good name. He _never_ belonged here."

Aubert pulled his napkin from his shirt, lying in on the table. "Jaclyn…the opera house would not exist without him," he said quietly, eyebrows knit. His wife continued, unabated.

"I do not care about the opera house anymore, Aubert. I tired of being ignored—_I am your wife_! Does that not have greater precedence?"

Aubert lifted a hand, trying to calm her. "Please, Jaclyn…"

She shook her head, drawing in a breath. The boy had grown up at her husband's side, needed while she never was. Her husband would never drive the boy away…

Jaclyn rose slowly, looking down at him across the table. "I swear it, Aubert, your apprentice leaves or _I will_."

Her husband's eyes went wide. "No, Jaclyn…please…"

She took in a breath, composing herself. "I meant every word, _husband_."

Met with silence, she turned from the room, a smile crossing her lips. On this stage, she had played her part well.

* * *

Benoît peeked his head around the door as the raised voiced ceased, waiting until he heard his mother's familiar footsteps disappear at the other end of the hall. Silently he moved through the house, pushing open the door to the dining hall. His father was seated at the table before him.

"Father?"

The older man did not respond, his head pressed into his hands. Benoît moved closer, timidly reaching out to touch his shoulder. He drew back as his father moved, regarding him with reddened eyes. "What is it?" he said wearily.

Benoît bit his lip, moving back another step. "I…I heard voices…"

"What _exactly_ did you hear?" his father asked, his tone sharper.

"Nothing, sir! I just heard your voice…and mother's…"

His father pushed the chair back, staring at the letters on the table. "Is that all?"

"Yes, sir." Benoît glanced at the topmost letter, swallowing. "That's Tonton Galen's handwriting, is it not?" he asked meekly.

His father nodded, picking up the jumble of papers. "Yes. He will be arriving in Paris within the month," he answered, walking away.

Benoît could not suppress his smile. "That is good news then, isn't it, Father?" He received no answer, left alone in the room.

* * *

"The underground lake still exists? Good God, I must remember not to tell my wife."

The other aristocrats chuckled at the man's comment, ignoring the silent architect. He frowned, placing his hands behind his back.

"I assure you, monsieurs, that the underground caverns are many levels below where we stand now. They were sealed off years ago. There is no need for concern."

Erik walked behind the gentlemen, his eyes attentive from behind the mask. Aubert glanced at him and then quickly brought his gaze back to elegant rooms before him, continuing his effortless recitation of the figures and glories of the opera house. Gentlemen followed at his heels, occasionally offering an ignorant comment or question when appropriate. The architect sighed, stopping just inside the auditorium.

"In sum, gentlemen, at 11,000 square meters, housing 450 artists, this opera house is the most grand in Europe, if not the world."

Low, approving murmurs followed, accompanied by the thick cloud of smoke. Aubert waited, staring lifelessly across the sprawling room.

"Well done, Monsieur Gardnier! She is truly remarkable," one of the gentlemen broke in as he pulled his cigar from his mouth, motioning upwards at the vaulting ceiling with it. "Now, what of this magnificent chandelier?"

The architect rubbed his forehead with a hand, sighing quietly. "If you would excuse me a moment, monsieurs, this low lighting pains my eyes. Erik—" he said, looking up at the youth, "Erik can answer any questions you may have. He knows this place as well as I."

A few gentlemen turned, surprise obvious on their faces as they noticed the tall boy behind them. Giving a polite nod to the aristocrats, the apprentice captured their attention easily with his smooth, lilting voice, his gaze following the architect as he left.

Aubert moved quickly from the group, walking through the grand foyer until he came to the staircase. He walked to the edge, resting his hands against it.

Just faintly, he could hear the apprentice's voice echoing through the vast halls, seemingly everywhere. The architect bowed his head. _Why, dear God, does it have to be him? Why not the other? _

Years ago he had doubted the benevolence of his brother by taking in filthy, sickly child, diligently nursing him to health, procuring a new mask…

He would have never done such a thing upon impulse, consumed by his work, the pressures it entailed. He could never afford the time nor heart his brother possessed, but he knew beauty, true beauty. Who would have thought that this child would share the same aptitude, the same passion? Who would have thought that this child would spare him from his own demons, taking on the burden of this place?

Erik's voice was dimmer now—they must be moving, he thought wearily. Even so, Aubert found himself straining to listen to the quiet tones, the calm guise that never ceased even in the midst of aversion. In all those years, there were no blatant threats, no sneers to Erik's face, yet all the while, Aubert knew they must have existed. Even then, he could not push the boy away—not once he learned what he was capable of, the brilliancy concealed behind the most deceiving of exteriors.

Yet the solemn truth remained. His work that was a thing of beauty had transformed into an all-consuming monster, draining him, wasting away his vision through finances, politics and unrest. He had needed Erik, a savior for his own failings, someone who saw what he once could. Even as a child, Erik understood his vision better than he did himself, crafting it into a thing he could have never finished on his own. But what consideration had he given for the boy, to grow up in such an environment, stricken of all things those his age possessed? Aubert closed his eyes, cursing his own selfishness. His supreme ambition to give had only taken.

Perhaps his wife was right. He had lost sight of her in the midst of his pursuit. His son was a foreign thing to him, absorbing things he long ago pushed from his mind. And Erik—his dear apprentice, his friend—denied youth in return for a world of dust, ink and stone when he was capable of far more.

Aubert gripped the railing until his knuckles were white. It was a cruel ultimatum that Jaclyn had laid before him, but not wholly unjust. For all their differences and misgivings, she was his wife and he loved her. It was time he rectified his failings, even at the heels of his greatest triumph.

"Monsieur?"

Aubert turned, the handsome visage of apprentice standing before him. The very sight of the youth roused guilt and frustration all over again, however he fought it.

"Are the gentlemen bored?" he said stiffly, putting on a weak smile.

Erik shook his head. "Hardly. I left them quite intrigued."

The architect smirked. "Indeed. It is a pity you did not regale them with a good ghost story. They adore those."

The corner of his apprentice's mouth lifted, speaking of his amusement. "One of them is waiting in the foyer for you," he said quietly. His mouth flattened again after a moment, the sharp hazel eyes perceptive. "Perhaps you should hail a cab and rest for the evening."

Aubert sighed, raising a dismissing hand. "No, that is not necessary. I will speak to him. The opera house needs its patrons."

Erik nodded, falling beside Aubert as they approached the gentleman. He was younger than the others in the group, though no less imposing. He smiled warmly at them.

"You did not exaggerate when you said that this young man knew this place. I am quite impressed with his sure command." Erik inclined his head a degree.

Aubert gave a weak grin. "Indeed, Erik has been my right hand in all matters of the opera house." He swallowed, uneasy. "Is there anything else, Monsieur le Comte?"

The young aristocrat smiled again, the easy, familiar gesture absent among so many of the posturing affluent. Immediately, Aubert felt some relief.

"I wished to congratulate you on your magnificent accomplishment, Monsieur Gardnier." He glanced over at Erik. "Your combined accomplishments," he corrected. "Paris will never be the same."

"We are grateful for your kind praise, though whether Paris will be thankful is yet to be seen," Aubert answered flatly.

The gentleman chuckled. "I have no doubt this opera house will be the gem of our— "

The sound of a cleared throat interrupted him. All eyes rested on the new foreman who stood behind them, anxiously gripping the cap in his hands.

"Excuse me, monsieurs," he mumbled, his eyes carefully fixed upon the architect. "My uh…my men are having some difficulties…with the chandelier. The mechanism that holds..."

He stopped, hearing the architect's sigh, and shrugged mildly. "I…I just wanted to inform you before I have to bring in someone to fix—"

"Come with me," Erik interjected, catching the man's gaze. He gave a slight bow to the Comte, excusing himself. Strain flooded Aubert's countenance as he watched the apprentice leave, his decision burning him with every passing moment.

"You look like a man who could use a good drink."

Aubert spun his head around to the Comte. "I suppose I do. This opera house…it's been..." His voice trailed off as he grit his jaw.

The Comte nodded sympathetically. "Well then, perhaps it is appropriate for me to bring up one last matter with you…"

* * *

"What difficulty were you having with it?" Erik asked, flashing a quick glance at the man just behind him as they moved through the labyrinth of passageways. He moved at his normal pace, effortlessly falling into shadows only to reappear yards later. A small, teasing grin appeared on his face as he heard the heavy breathing of the struggling foreman.

_Left at the end, then right…_

The schematics of the opera played over in his mind, Erik recalling every level and room with ease, wordlessly moving upward.

"The gears…Monsieur," the man panted.

The apprentice's mouth fell into a grim line. "The mechanism was designed to perfection," he said, taking a turn into another darkened corridor, "your men must have been assembled incorrectly."

"…But, Monsieur, the…design is…flawed…"

Erik stopped dead in his tracks, the other man nearly colliding with him. He turned his head just enough so that the light hit the smooth, dark surface and the burning eyes behind it.

"It is not…_flawed_, as you so delicately put it."

The foreman swallowed, staring helplessly. Erik left him in his daze, starting forward once again. After a rising yet another level, he pushed open the door, startling the two workers inside. One look and they backed away, watching him come forward, eyeing the scattered tools and parts on the floor.

The foreman arrived a moment later, still winded as he looked down at the apprentice. "Well, if you can fix it," he mumbled, and turned away.

The two workers stared longingly after him.

"Is the cable secured?" Erik asked, ignoring their stares. One of the workers stepped forward. "Uh, yes."

Erik gave it a quick critical glance, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. The men stared in awe. It was a rare occasion when men as lofty as the architect and his contemporaries would perform manual labor. The effect was tenfold when the very embodiment of the whispered masked apprentice stood before them.

Erik made quick work of the reassembly, his hands sure. After a moment, he stood, looking over at his audience, pointing a long finger at a metal lever.

"_This_ was in the wrong place. The chandelier would have crashed on the first time lowered." The men answered in a dim chorus of apologies and 'yes sirs'. Erik wiped his hands on a rag and rolled back down his sleeves, heading for the door.

"God forbid it ever fell, ay, Monsieur?" one of the men teased nervously.

"Yes," the masked youth replied, eyeing the rope and cables. "God forbid."

* * *

Jaclyn stood as her husband entered the room, her eyes narrowing at his haggard appearance. His shoulders were stooped, his face pale and lined, heavy dark circles under his eyes. He moved towards her slowly, giving her a half-hearted smile.

"You look beautiful today, Jaclyn."

She looked at him strangely. "You flatter me," she answered stiffly, abashed by the unusual compliment. Her husband collapsed in a chair, looking up at her. "I have not said it enough, I know, but you truly are as beautiful now as the day I married you." His lips broke into a true smile, a weak image of his appearance in youth. "I am surprised I have not had to fend off more brash young gentlemen."

Jaclyn turned away from him, shutting her eyes. She could endure his absences, her own terrible deceit, the mockery she made of him every time she was with another, but she could not bear to listen to the gentle tone nor the genuine affection which was now given to her.

"Have you made your decision, Aubert?" she said coolly, taking a calming breath. She heard him rise from his chair, turning her to face him. "Yes," he answered at length, pressing a hand against her cheek. "Yes, I have."

She opened her eyes, meeting the sad gaze of her husband. The promising vision of a new life with her suitor vanished as she looked upon him. There was no doubt left in her mind as to his choice.

"How could…?" she started, trembling. Aubert moved his hand from her cheek, placing a gentle kiss in the same place. "Jaclyn…it is the right thing."

She pulled back. "What of your apprentice?"

His gaze lowered. Jaclyn watched the torrent of emotions that crossed his face, wondering how many showed on her own. It was not supposed to be like this!

"I will speak with him," her husband answered slowly.

"When?"

Aubert rubbed his forehead, sighing. "We were invited to a Bal Masque…but not until after that. I need time away from the opera house."

Disregarding his miserable tone, Jaclyn glared at her husband, bemused. "Truly, Aubert, you astonish me to have heard of a Masque before I have. And who might be hosting this event?"

"The Comte de Chagny."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's note:**

Two chapters in two days; this is a first (and quite possibly a last!) for me. I felt slightly nostalgic coming back to this chapter, as it was the first thing I ever wrote for this story.

A warm thanks goes out to all readers and especially to the reviewers—your comments are greatly appreciated! But enough of my prattle.

Continuing on…

* * *

—**Perros-Guirec**

The mud-hardened streets of the little French seaside village were narrow, quaint shops lining them. Two figures moved along slowly, their cheeks and noses flush from the sharp salt-tainted breeze. The child gripped her father's hand, her bright blue eyes staring through the panes of glass to the luxuries within.

Feeling her step slow even more, her father paused and looked back. "Christine?" he asked quietly.

She looked up into her father's worn face, offering him a meek smile. He returned it, leading her into the bakery shop. The girl closed her eyes a moment, breathing in the rich aroma of bread, pastries and cakes. She pressed close to the glass display, her eyes widening at the shelves of mouth-watering delicacies. Nibbling on her lower lip, she threw a hopeful glance up to her father.

The baker entered the room, brushing flour off his hands as he greeted them warmly.

"The usual, Mr. Daaé?"

Her father lowered the violin case to the floor, using his freed hand to dig through his worn pockets. He pulled out a few coins, frowning. There was not enough for even a decently sized loaf.

Sighing, he placed the coins on the counter. "Whatever that may buy us, I will take, please," he said, his accent heavy.

The baker glanced at the little girl standing beside her father. She did not beg like other children her age among so much temptation. She waited, trusting her father with a devotion that he had never seen a child possess.

The baker took a single coin and pushed the others back toward Mr. Daaé. He went to the oven and pulled out two large loaves. Wrapping them, he put them in a bag, pausing a moment before he stooped and took a pastry from the shelf. Placing it in its own bag, he reached over the counter and gave it to Christine.

"For the prettiest girl in Perros-Guirec," he said, chuckling. She took the bag, giving the man a shy thank you and curtsey. Her father smiled, turning his gaze back to the bag with the fresh loaves.

"There was not money enough for these," he said, unable to take the bread.

The baker smiled, shrugging.

"My days would be far more dreary if not for the sound of your violin and the voice of the little angel beside you. Please, it is a gift."

With hesitation, her father took the loaves and nodded thanks. Fitting the bag into in the crook of one arm, he picked up the violin again, holding out the other hand. His daughter grasped it tightly, following him out of the store.

They walked side-by-side past the remainder of the shops, keeping to the edge of the street until it faded into a wide dirt path cutting through the vacant countryside. Christine let go of her father's hand for a moment, stepping over the heavy carriage treads to the grassy field on the other side, plucking a wild flower from its stem. Smiling, she ran back and lifted up to her father.

He took it in its hand, admiring it. "These were your mother's favorite. They reminded her of a flower from our homeland." Christine's gaze brightened as he placed the flower in her hair, just above her ear. "Like the empress," he told her.

She giggled, blushing. Just then, her gaze moved past him. "Papa, look!"

Teams of horses drawing opulent carriages charged toward them, the wheels leaving a spray of dirt in their wake. Christine's hand was snatched up as her father moved her off the road to the safety of the field, watching as the carriages blazed passed. The little girl gazed at them with wide eyes, standing up on her tiptoes to see them move off into the distance. The thud of hooves made her turn her head again as several other carriages approached.

"Where are they going, Papa?" she asked, looking up at him expectantly. "I should think there must be some grand occasion being held," he answered, his eyes following the next carriage as it passed. He felt his hand squeezed, drawing his attention back to his daughter.

"Can we not go?" the little girl asked. Her father smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, Christine, not this time."

He kneeled, smiling. His daughter clambered up onto his shoulders, laughing as he stood.

"I am closer to the angels now, Papa," she said, grinning up at the darkening sky. He moved through the field silently, his eyebrows knit. She was so light on his shoulders…so thin. If not for her voice and the generosity of the baker…

He closed his eyes, banishing the thought.

"Where shall we have our feast today?" he asked as they neared their home. Christine pointed to a tangled tree that stood guard behind their small cottage. Its bark long bleached from the sun and tides, the hideous and beautiful tree stood proudly among the rocks, its gnarled roots rising above the ground.

"Ah, a fine place, fit for royalty," her father said in his native tongue. When he reached the tree, he leaned over and let her step onto one of the roots. Brushing the sand off another root, he sat down, handing her a large chunk of the loaf.

"Dessert after," he chuckled, noticing her fleeting look at the wrapped pastry. Christine nodded, neatly breaking off a morsel and eating it quietly. They ate in comfortable silence, listening to the steady lap of the waves against the rocky shore, a note-less melody that never failed to lull them both.

Her father shivered as the sun lowered past the horizon of the gray sea. He stood, looking down at his daughter.

"Might I have a few minutes more, Papa?" Christine asked, her eyes hopeful.

After a moment, he nodded. "Come inside when you hear my violin."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's note: **

Let me apologize for the abruptness of introducing Christine—while I have the advantage of knowing exactly how events in that chapter coincide with the others, in my haste I did a poor job of showing this to you readers. I hope the connections, subtle as they sometimes are, become more apparent in this chapter and the following ones, and that you will come to understand my reasoning for bringing in her character at this time.

On a different note, updates should be more frequent, as this is my summer break. Thanks again to all readers and reviewers.

* * *

—**Perros-Guirec**

It was remarkably silent inside the carriage, the muffled fixed gait of the horses the only measure for the passage of time. Curtains were drawn, the shadows inside as heavy as those of the coming night.

Jaclyn brushed off the invisible dust from her exquisite ruby gown, admiring the feel of the satin pleated layers beneath her gloved fingers. It was her most expensive dress to date, intricately sewn beads and dyed lace covering the whole of it in a vast sheer layer, falling just off her shoulders and sweeping out in a slight train as she moved. Aubert had made no mention of the price. Indeed, he had said little of anything in the past weeks, she remembered wryly, the strange uneasiness surfacing again as she glanced at the darkened figure sitting across from her.

He was only visible by the pale half of his face, the rest shrouding the black that suited him so well. Darkness hid the eyes she found so captivating, and now they were as twin voids, seemingly as omniscient as they were unfathomable. Quickly, Jaclyn shifted her gaze.

Benoît sat next to him, pressed as far into the opposite wall as he could. His mother frowned. Despite the nearly regal, impassive bearing of the apprentice, her son was restless, hands flexing on his knees. His hair was slicked back in a vain mimic of Erik's usual style, the edges of the dark blonde strands curling just over the brim of the blue suit's high collar. It flattered Benoît's slender form as best as it could, his arms and legs still ill-proportioned to the rest of his body in yet another vice of his age. He had been poked and prodded for hours by the tailor, Jaclyn insisting that every detail of his attire was befitting of a gentleman and her son.

Jaclyn squinted, making out the outline of the gold and blue mask resting beside him. To her surprise, Benoît had initially chosen a black one, which she quickly rejected. She could not imagine her son in a mask so much like Erik's. Of course, she reminded herself, her son's facial structure was nowhere near as impressive, eyes and mouth too big for his head, eyebrows rather flat and heavy, lacking a tasteful arch. Even with a black mask, he would never had compared to the other, but he would have been similar, perhaps enough to be noticed…

She sighed, parting the curtain, watching the shops and small homes disappear behind them, the breeze rich with the crisp, damp smell of the sea. For being such a quaint village and landscape barren of activity or real society, there was a remarkable peace to it. Paris was interminably loud, beautiful in its swift modernization, but lacking the simplicity that abounded in this place.

She parted the curtains a degree further, her eyes resting upon the figures moving up ahead. The setting sun ahead of them, a father held his child's hand, both walking leisurely along the edge of the dirt road. A frail smile pulled at Jaclyn's lips. She barely remembered her childhood; a few scant memories sooner drowned than brought to recall. Yet the way this man held the child's hand so protectively, his walk measured so that the little girl would keep up with him; it was not unlike those times her own father had allowed her to accompany him to some scenic site, carting along his painting supplies. It was a simpler time, a happy one…and too distant to dwell on.

Jaclyn let the curtain fall back into place, collecting herself before she looked over at her husband. "Tell the driver to hurry. We are already late as it is," she commanded, her voice back to its native sharp tone.

"As late as everyone else will be," her husband reasoned. "It is certainly a long enough drive," he mumbled under his breath, tapping on the window. Moments later, the distinct snap of a whip sounded, the carriage lurching forward at a quickened pace.

Jaclyn ignored him, her eyes turning back to her son. "Stop fidgeting with your collar, Benoît."

His hands fell to his lap, but he would not look at her. The tension between them was almost tangible, evidenced by every dark stare or scowl. Jaclyn was certain he had not spoken of the things he witnessed, yet all the while, she truly feared. One ill word was all it would take to shatter her.

Jaclyn gripped her mask between her hands, her jaw clamped. She had come so close to escaping it all, if only not for her husband's strange act of adoration. Yet even for his unexpected decision, she could not remain. _She would not_.

Erik narrowly adjusted his position, interrupting her thoughts. She raised an eyebrow at him, noticing the slight tilt of his head, as though listening.

"We need to stop," he said, the music-like voice tinged with concern.

Jaclyn scoffed. "Don't be foolish."

"_Now_."

Aubert looked at him. "For what pur—"

The carriage jolted sideways. Jaclyn gasped, thrown forward into Erik. Pressing an arm against the wall for support, he shifted, quickly moving her back into the upholstered seat. A moment later, the carriage was level again, coming to a halt.

"What the devil?" Aubert muttered, looked out the window. Unruffled, Erik promptly got up and exited.

"Where does he think he's going?" Jaclyn hissed, glaring at the open door.

"Silence, Mother," Benoît reproved, following suit before his mother could utter another word.

The driver had already moved from his seat, raising a gloved hand toward one of the horses, the whip dangerously arched in the other. The animal threw up its head and reared back as much as the harness would allow, shaking the carriage once again. Erik could hear the sharp crack of wood and the pull against leather as the horse trembled, the whites of its eyes visible as it strained backwards.

Erik threw a sharp glance at the driver, wordlessly commanding the man to back away. Keeping in clear sight of the horse, he moved toward it, watching every tremor beneath the sweat-slicked coat, every steamed breath that rose from its nostrils into the cool air.

Benoît stared in amazement as Erik rested his hand against the animal's neck. Removing a glove, long graceful fingers ran along the damp fur and the taut muscles in a deliberate soothing motion. The horse quieted almost instantly under his touch, the harness jingling as it gave a relaxed shake of its head. His movements no less cautious, Erik moved his hand down the horse's leg, gently easing it up. Benoît could almost see the frown on the other's face as he touched the hoof, gently lowering the leg back down.

"She will not be able to walk," Erik said flatly, without looking back at the driver. He replaced his glove, moving his hand over its neck, his visible eyebrow knit as he stared at the horse. The driver began cursing under his breath, stopping as a beam of light hit his face. Raising an arm to ward off the brightness, he watched the two passing carriages, one following the other, both moving at the full speed of the matched horses. They were rich in design, complete with doormen and footmen, all dressed formal eastern silks.

Benoît pressed closer to their carriage to avoid being hit. A moment later, dust churned in the air as the teams were pulled back, both carriages coming to a slow halt.

For a moment, there was silence, no movement from anyone. At length, a dark skinned man stepped out of the front carriage, his vivid red and yellow silks visible even through the darkness. Benoît took a step closer to the carriage, his wide eyes locked on the approaching man.

He stopped at a polite distance, bowing.

"_Asr xoš_," he greeted, straightening again. His sharp eyes rested steadily upon Erik's. "My master wonders what your trouble is," he asked in surprising articulate French. The masked youth bowed in turn, not a degree lower than had been shown to him.

"One of the mares has thrown a shoe and is lame," he answered, glancing over at the still horse. The man gazed at Erik curiously and then came forward, whispering in a foreign tongue as he approached an animal. The mare's ears tilted forward, but like with Erik, she was calm. The man continued his gentle murmuring, lifting the foreleg with sure hands.

He made a disapproving sound in his throat as he lowered the leg back down. "Indeed, the hoof is split." He shook his head, giving the horse a gentle pat on its shoulder. "My countrymen take great pride in their horses. It is a shame the feeling is not maintained elsewhere," he said, casting a foul glance at the driver.

A ringed hand motioned out of the front carriage window. With a smile, the man bowed to Erik once more. "My master will have you ride in the carriage behind his, as this one is useless to you. I believe our destination is the same," he said, inclining his head toward Erik's mask.

"We are grateful," the youth replied. The man bowed and left them, disappearing inside the front carriage once more.

"Who are they?" Benoît whispered as Erik approached. The other continued walking, glancing at him. "They are Persian, and judging by the extravagant appearances, royalty." He paused. "It would be foolish to refuse their generosity, especially in our present situation." Benoît's mouth hung open, Erik ignoring it.

With her usual indignant words, Jaclyn and her husband moved to the other carriage, tailed by their son. Erik followed last, giving one last grave look to the injured horse, well aware of its nearing end as the carriage driver pulled out a pistol.

The second he closed the door, the carriage jolted forward. A shot rang out into the night.

* * *

"Was that him?"

The servant shrugged, his eyes carefully lowered as he watched his master run a finger along the gilded ornamental sword sitting beside him. He had long since learned to carefully govern his answers, even in a position as high ranking as his own.

The carriage rocked slightly on the uneven path, the driver expertly compensating with the reins.

"He wore a mask akin to that of the rumors," he finally answered.

His master held up a hand, silencing his companion. "Watch him tonight."

The servant bowed.

* * *

Renée adjusted her younger brother's cravat, sweeping a hand over his coat lapels.

"There," she smiled, "you look far more dashing than Philippe. But do not tell him I said so," she added deviously. The boy gave a half-hearted grin to please her. Moving away, he stared down from the window at the carriages far below, all lined up around the huge circular drive, more entering though the gate.

"Will Élise come?" he asked miserably, still facing the window.

Renée looked away from him. Their older sister had married not long after their father's passing, having had to move to India with her military husband in the subsequent weeks. They all adored their little brother, who was so much younger than they were; yet it was Élise who had taken the place of a mother he had never known. The boy had been brave in their parting, his tears unshed as she kissed him goodbye. Her absence was hard on them all, especially with the loss of their father, yet she doubted the weight rested upon anyone as heavily as it did Raoul.

"You know she cannot," his sister answered truthfully. Sighing, Renée turned and looked in the room's mirror, seeing her own pale reflection. She was not the exquisite beauty her older sister was, but the fitted bodice and long peach colored silk chiffon skirts were mildly flattering, enough to ignite dim anticipation for the approaching evening. She longed to be able to smile again.

Their household draped in ceaseless mourning, Philippe was wise in his intentions to defuse the laden emotions with a grand social event. Yet Raoul was still so young; she doubted he would find any thrill in the often rigid environment, lacking any acquaintances near his age.

"Renée?"

She turned, seeing the tall form of her older brother standing in the doorway. "Hurry, they are arriving," he chided lightly. Renée nodded, standing up a fraction straighter, assuming her guise as hostess. Philippe offered her his arm, which she took gladly. She paused just outside the door, drawing away from Philippe's side. Her skirts swept against the floor as she crossed back into the room.

Raoul turned at her touch, staring at the object in her hand. Reluctantly, he took it, settling the stiff painted cloth over his face. In the pale light of the room, the white mask almost glowed.


	19. Chapter 19

The Châteaux de Chagny was one of the hidden secrets of Perros-Guirec, well outside of the borders of the small town. Built some centuries previous, the manor stood alone in its sprawling size, a solemn white and gray edifice rising ominously above the pink rocks of the coast. Its carved towers were studded with gothic windows, waves of ivy and moss gripping the stone reaching upwards to the highest levels of the house.

Built to withstand the harshness of its sea companion, there was ample reason for the firm exterior, yet the châteaux was hardly as foreboding within. Generations of tasteful decorating left it a place that rivaled the majesty of Napoleon's palace, heavy with elegant foreign tapestries, exquisite woodworking and gilded décor. It was no shock that the most prominent members of Europe's aristocracy welcomed an invitation to the place, lusting after and relishing its opulence.

Perhaps it was because she was raised within such surroundings, or perhaps because she was hidden behind a name that Renée de Chagny inwardly loathed the people around her. There was hardly a need for the masks; she saw past them easily enough. Assured of a place in history and memory, the affluent guests never changed, whether in the royal court or at a social gathering.

Basking in debt, quick to spend and quicker to insult, Renée had witnessed it all, the fairy tale reverie long since dissolved. Time afforded the ability to see past such pretenses. A Masque was all too appropriate an occasion for these people; simply another chance to pass vacant whispers and revel in accepted lies. It served its purpose well as a distraction.

Renée offered another charming smile to the Countess de Brienne, nodding to one of the woman's comments. All the while, she kept a watchful eye on the continual flood of people that filled the room, all dressed to perfection, ornamenting masks of every color, each one seemingly in an attempt to outdo the last.

She met Philippe's gaze, and with a few cordial parting words to the Countess, Renée gathered the edge of her gown in one hand and moved quickly toward him.

Philippe smiled warmly upon her approach, gesturing to the man before him. "Emperor Nasir al-Din Shah, may I present my sister, Renée Marie Antoinette de Chagny."

The foreign ruler gave her an acknowledging nod, taking her hand. "I am pleased to meet you at last. Your brother speaks quite highly of you."

Renée blushed, keeping her eyes modestly lowered. The Shah dropped her hand, casting a scrutinizing eye over the room. The woman had to resist moving back a step, the sharp authority in the Shah's gaze tangible even in a foreign land. His attire in no way lessoned the effect. Dressed in the royal fashion of his country, he wore a blood red coat, adorned with jeweled stars on the sleeves and gold embroidery along the collar and lapels, medallions and strings of pearls slung over each shoulder. The sword that hung at the Shah's side only added to the rather commanding presence, though Renée could not help but think the foreigner was little different from the other French nobles. The Shah's regal glory was striking, but it was privileged, granted through birth and earned through a name. He commanded reverence out of right, but not by her will.

The servant whispered something to the ruler. He gave an abrupt nod, turning his attention back to the host.

"We will speak later, I presume."

The Comte's eyebrows creased before he gave an acknowledging smile. "Indeed. Please enjoy yourself." As the Persians moved off, Renée noticed the fleeting look of apprehension across her brother's face. Shrewd in business dealings and possessing an even wiser choice of character, it was a rare occasion when Philippe's small thread of insecurity showed itself.

"You will remember to enjoy yourself as well, won't you?" she asked, laying a comforting hand on his arm. Philippe nodded, looking down at her. "Yes, but there are always matters to—"

Renée followed his gaze, taking in a shaky breath.

Down one step, and then another, each movement bearing all the semblance of a panther—dark, predatory…watching…

Renée had never seen another mask like it. Coal-black, alluring in its monastic, face-conforming nature, it contrasted sharply to the other gaudy gentlemen's masks. Cut vertically down the face rather than horizontally, it left only half of the face in open view.

There was nothing especially eye-catching about the youth's attire; the same black as his mask and hair, the lapels and high color adorned in a simple velvet pattern. He fit it well, to be sure, the cut of the suit only serving to enhance his surprisingly tall frame, yet it did not depart from the popular style. Even so, Renée could not tear her gaze away from him despite the etiquette warnings resounding in her mind.

He walked behind another couple, almost accepting a subservient position, yet everything in the youth's bearing spoke otherwise. There was no absurd pretentious strut or haughty expression, yet there was a majestic aura unmatched even by the Shah. Every stride was landed with confidence, every glance ablaze with warning. He moved like death incarnate, foreboding and menacing, coiled to strike.

Renée felt a blush rise to her cheeks at her unabated gaze. For just a moment, the fairy tale returned, and she stood mesmerized. Without effort, she was captivated, utterly grasped by the strange presence, lost in a sea of masks and blurred faces. Yet _his_ eyes she saw clearly, the piercing golden stare taking in the busy milieu, as fleeting as it was enveloping. Renée shuddered, grasping the mask in her hand tighter as those eyes fell upon her. Philippe spoke some greeting, moving forward, yet she could not follow, like a trapped quarry awaiting its doom.

"Renée?"

Biting her lip, the young woman smiled apologetically to her brother, tearing her attention back to the present. Philippe looked at her strangely, gently taking her elbow. "You know Monsieur Gardnier, the mastermind of the grand opera house, yes?"

Engrained manners taking hold, Renée smiled warmly at the architect. "Yes, of course. I daresay my family will be a frequent patron, Monsieur. Philippe tells me your opera house is unparalleled by any other."

The man's face darkened at the comment before a forced grin crossed over his features. "You are kind, Mademoiselle."

Taken aback by the pall of his tone, Renée glanced helplessly at the woman beside Gardnier, meeting an equally cool gaze.

"Madame Gardnier," she spoke quietly, curtsying, "it is always a pleasure." The woman glared back at her, eyes narrowed. Renée looked away from her, meeting the terrified gaze of the adolescent boy standing beside the couple.

"Welcome," she said quietly, smiling at him.

"I do not believe you have met my son, Benoît," Madame Gardnier said. Instead of moving forward to greet her, the boy stood still, his gangly appearance the antithesis of the dark youth beside him. Beads of sweat gathered along his forehead while he absently rubbed at the edges of the mask. She instantly felt a pang of empathy for the boy. Renée said a few encouraging words to him even as her attention was already shifting back to other young man. Motionless, he regarded her evenly, towering over her petite form. Cautiously, Renée met his eyes once more, relieved to find they were very human after all, a startlingly deep hazel flecked with impossible hints of amber.

The hundreds of voices surrounding them fell to a muted din. The young man took up her gloved hand, bringing it close to his lips. Without warning, he paused, swiftly releasing his grip and returning to his full height.

Fighting to conceal her disappointment at his unexpected abruptness, Renée stepped back, clasping her hands together fiercely. Did he find fault with her?

Against her will, the hazel eyes found hers again, daringly. Renée sunk back into the dark gaze, her nails pressing into the palms of her hand. Just for a split moment, she saw through his steady poise. His was no longer the look of a hunter, but the hunted.

* * *

From the moment he stepped from the carriage, Erik took in a silent, calming breath, eyes darting to the ominous stone châteaux resting before him, its towers and windows lit in honor of the festivities. A smile played on his mouth as he briefly allowed himself to marvel at the stonework, the expertly chiseled edges and ornamentation speaking of the châteaux's age and durability. He resisted the urge to slip away and explore the other reaches of the manor, perhaps run a hand over the mossy, cool surface, a humble testament to an artist long since departed.

"How do you stand it?"

Erik's head snapped around, Benoit glancing up at him while he tugged at his newly placed mask. The smile quickly flattened into a severe line. Almost reflexively, Erik reached a hand up to touch his faux right cheek, confirming that the black mask was securely in place. Benoît turned his eyes to the ground, saying nothing more.

The line became a frown as Erik's hand fell back to his side. A mask was a second nature thing, the facet that he could never abandon. Physical comfort was a meager issue, one that he had learned to ignore. All around him there were cavorting fools hiding perfect faces, their masks simply an embellishment, an unnecessary garnish. What did they know of discomfort? What did they know of dread should the façade be torn away?

Hands flexing at his side, Erik forced himself into a smooth pace, vaguely noticing the agitated step of Benoît beside him. It was unnerving to see the other boy in a mask, silently bearing his apprehensions as they approached the lion's den. Perhaps they were not so unlike…

…Yet Benoît would never know it. He would never understand their similar yearning for music, their deep appreciation for beauty, or of the perpetual desire to be accepted without limitations. They would remain unspoken adversaries fighting for the same cause.

But tonight—tonight Benoît would understand.

Erik kept his eyes locked ahead of him, taking in the impressive stateliness of the immense domed foyer as they were led into the ballroom. The constant clicking of shoes against the marble floor and hum of voices assaulted the musicians' tender orchestrations. There were so many people, so many hiding faces, inquisitive eyes…

All around him, he felt it—prying glances, whispers…they could not know…

But did they suspect?

Over the years, Erik had forced himself to endure the curious stares while in the public arena, though he skillfully evaded them on far more occasions. The ignorant were never satisfied, the foolish never abated. Even now, he fought the overwhelming temptation to disappear in the throng of bodies and become one with the comforting shadows. Yet all the while, he knew there was no escape…not this time.

He took in another long breath, gloved hands flexing at his side as he strove to maintain the composed appearance. The fleeting glances continued, though not just at him. Repeatedly they fell on the architect and even more so on his wife, followed by understated smirks and low comments. The couple moved forward oblivious, Benoît dragging a few feet behind them.

Then he met one pair of eyes that were not so threatening. Warily, Erik focused his attention on her. Dressed just as splendidly as any noble present, the young woman was no more striking than the rest, yet she did not fit among them. Her gaze did not hold the brazen superiority or the judgment that bombarded them, but rather curiosity and awe, not unlike a child. Erik tensed, seeing the little girl from years before, remembering the screams that followed…

Moving from her side, the Comte de Chagny came forward, his genuinely warm smile greeting them. "Monsieur Gardnier! Welcome." He glanced over at Jaclyn, bowing. "Madame," he said courteously, taking her proffered hand. She smiled at him, raising her chin up another degree. Eyebrow raised, the Comte took a step back, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. Erik watched as the young woman slowly moved toward them, her cheeks flushed.

He barely heard the Comte as he introduced the young woman as his sister. Instead, Erik watched her every movement, distrusting. She did not look at him for some time, instead considerately speaking with the Gardniers, giving each her attention and gratitude despite any social disparities. Even when the young lady faced him again, he could make no movement. What did she see?

She tilted her head up, looking at him expectantly. Erik clenched his jaw. All around him, so many people…no where to hide…

_But you have no reason to_, he reasoned._ Tonight, you are like everyone else. _

The young man extended a hand, taking up her small one. With all the grace and manners instilled upon him over the years, he brought it to his lips, watching her blush.

_But if she truly knew what she looked upon…_

In an instant, Erik pulled his hand away, taking a small step back as he fought to ignore the surprised and injured expression in the young woman's eyes. He could offer her no explanation or solace, once again donning an impassive expression. To his surprise, the she did not indignantly turn away, but rather met his cool stare.

After a moment, he received an understanding smile.

* * *

As the night droned on, Philippe found himself in a crowd of gowns and fans, bestowed with the quiet laughter and deliberate comments. Giving the ladies a smile he hardly felt, the Comte warily endured the incessant prattle and licentious glances. His impeccable manners and charming nature never failed him, especially in a group such as this, even as he wished it would.

It was no secret that France's aristocracy lusted the de Chagny fortune, eagerly promoting their daughters to the influential and appealing bachelor. While the late Comte was missed, the prospect of being tied to one of France's most esteemed houses was an enticing prospect, enough that any time of mourning for the family was dismissed as Philippe was assailed with visitors and letters.

Avoiding the blatant stare of the Marquis Fouquet's wife, he caught sight of a small form pressed into a wall, dwarfed by the passing nobles and forgotten in the din of the ballroom. Alone in wearing a white mask, his younger brother watched from the shadows, revealed only when the light found him.

Excusing himself, Philippe made his way across the room, stopping beside Raoul. He leaned over secretly, revealing a playful grin.

"Do not fret," he whispered, "I find it a bit of a bore for myself as well."

Raoul looked up at him, and Philippe was sure there was a raised eyebrow beneath the pale, blank exterior.

"You do not believe me?" he asked, his tone a mock indignant.

"No."

Frowning, Philippe kneeled, turning his gaze back out to the swarms of guests. "It is an honor to be among some of the most affluent people in Europe and her surrounding nations. Many of them are very kind and gracious, and others—"

The corner of his mouth pulled up sadly. "Others have…_motives_."

"Then why did you invite them?"

Philippe chuckled. "Because it would have been a social out lash not to do so."

"Are they all corrupt then?"

The statement earned another chuckle. "Many are, Raoul." His eyes fell back on his brother. "Unfortunately, some of the best people you will ever know could never attend an occasion like this. You must never judge them for it."

The boy nodded seriously and Philippe smiled. "Now," he said, lowering his voice, "it is still a beautiful night, and I do not believe Renée is looking."

Raoul grinned, casting his older brother a thankful look before hurrying out of the room. Watching him go, Philippe stood, almost envious.

"You did not mention a brother."

Philippe turned, standing face to face with the Shah.

"Shâhanshâh, you surprised me," he said, the warm tone he used with Raoul evaporating.

The foreign leader smiled, white teeth revealed through his heavy black mustache. "My apologies, Comte." He paused, looking off in the direction Raoul left. "Your brother is most fortunate to have someone so doting."

The elder de Chagny was silent, his forehead creased.

The Shah placed his hands behind his back. "My people highly value our family and traditions, a notion that fortunately is shared even outside my country."

Both men moved from the room to an adjoining private library. The Shah turned and waved his servant away, the man bowing low before he left. Even then, Philippe doubted the Shah was actually hidden from the servant's watchful presence.

He went to a table and poured two glasses of sherry. "While I am gratified for your concern, surely you do not wish to speak of family."

The Persian ruler nodded to him, taking the glass. "No, though I do think my mother would have enjoyed this event. She has been rather…disillusioned as of late."

Philippe frowned. "You have my sympathies."

The man waved his hand dismissally. "Hardly necessary, Comte. I have found that entertaining gifts usually suffice to quell such moods."

"Then this trip will no doubt prove beneficial for you both."

The Shah laughed, the sound chilling Philippe. "Indeed, it will," he continued. "Ah, but there is much to discuss."

The Comte offered him a seat, taking the opposite couch.

"You are returning to Persia shortly?"

The Shah took another sip of the drink, his dark eyes boring into his host.

"Soon. I fear that it would be unwise to postpone the return despite my appreciation for your culture. You have been most generous, Comte."

The corner of Philippe's mouth lifted knowingly. Eager to modernize his country, the Shah had taken a rather extensive trip to the European nations, the costly personal excursion requiring the contract of huge foreign loans to finance. The millions Philippe had granted the Shah hardly put a dent in the de Chagny accounts, but more importantly, it was enough to secure trade rights to Persia should he dictate such a move. For the time being, he appeased the foreign ruler, treading with caution.

"I can only hope you have enjoyed France," Philippe replied, absently rotating his glass. The Shah nodded, leaning back into the cushions.

"This is a strange and wonderful place, Comte—in many ways, far more grand than any palace of my country." The Shah looked down at his ringed hand, letting out a long breath. "However," he continued, "Persia will become as grand as your Paris, I make sure of it."

Philippe raised an eyebrow. "A demanding task, Shâhanshâh, though not impossible," he said carefully, his voice even.

The Persian looked up, meeting the Comte's eyes. "No, certainly not impossible." He smiled, setting aside his glass.

"Now, tell me of this opera house…"

* * *

Raoul deftly moved through the crowds to the promenade, easily slipping away from view. Glad to be free of the confining ballroom, he took a deep breath, savoring the moist salt-laden air that enveloped him. It was a calming aroma, one deeply tied to memory.

The sounds of the Masque faded into the background as he moved along the wall facing the sea, the rocky precipice before him. His father had taken him to this place a precious few times, both kneeling at the edge of the cliffs while they watched the angry sea below crash against the rocks in a thunderous chorus.

Yet tonight the sea was quiet, as though holding its breath. The waters lapped calmly, painted with the fragile light of the newly appearing moon. Raoul stood at the edge, looking down. When had his father last stood there beside him? The memories were fading all too quickly, no matter how he fought it.

He exhaled, closing his eyes against the fleeting tears. He had not cried for any of them. His father told him to be strong…

He would have given anything in that moment to feel the reassuring hand on shoulder, a gentle word of comfort…

But there was only silence, his only companion the gray sea.

The wind picked up again, whispering as it chilled. Raoul shuddered, bringing his hands up to either arm to rub warmth back into them. He took a step back from the cliff, slowly turning his head. A pair of eyes stared back through the darkness, unwavering. Raoul stood firm, his heartbeat thudding within his chest.

"Father?" he whispered.

The ghostly visage disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving him alone once more. Sighing, he turned and made his way back to down the rocks.

* * *

Jaclyn Gardnier was lost once more in her treasured environment, drowning in the latest gossip while surrounding herself with envious onlookers. She always did possess a flare for making the dullest of stories worthy of circulating in the pretentious circles, the gift serving her well now. Young women vied for the seat next to her, leaning over to catch every word. Jaclyn smiled inwardly, reveling in her adeptness to rein their attention.

Early on that the night she had abandoned her husband's side, coldly encouraging him to join the other men. He did so without argument, Benoît sulking behind him. For hours, Jaclyn had not given either of them a second thought. Even so, regret seeped into her now, and she despised it.

"Pray tell, what happened?" the young woman asked at her side, fan waving anxiously. Jaclyn swallowed, her lips moving into a faux smile.

"The young nobleman disappeared with his fiancée, neither heard from again." She was surrounded by a chorus of gasps.

"And her vengeful lover?" another girl urged.

Jaclyn gave an elegant shrug. "No one can be sure. Perhaps he died of a broken heart, or perhaps he still haunts their secret abode, ever watchful."

The fans beat the air at an even faster pace, the young women turning to each other with excited whispers. Jaclyn leaned back, her smile transformed into amused smirk.

"You haven't been poisoning these ladies with more of those ridiculous stories, have you?"

Jaclyn looked behind her, a young masked gentleman grinning smugly. "You're here?" she gasped, rising so quickly she nearly toppled the chair. The _avocat_ chuckled at her, reaching for her hand.

"Why of course, Jaclyn! There is not a single respectable Parisian _not_ invited. Even those damnable eastern foreigners are in attendance."

He grasped her hand, leading her to the ballroom floor. Jaclyn resisted.

"That is the Shah of Persia," she retorted, her voice low, "_he is a king_."

The young man's eyes widened as he swerved his head to take another look at the guests. "Philippe never fails to amaze me," he said, leering. After a moment, he turned back to her, taking a step closer. "Will I see you later tonight, my dear?"

She knew that look well. Jaclyn swallowed, shaking her head. "I cannot. Aubert is here and—"

Her lover snorted. "Very well," he replied, taking her gloved hand between his own and placing a lavish kiss on her knuckles. "But I do hope you realize what you are missing."

Jaclyn watched as he disappeared in the throng of people, leaving her standing very much alone. She raised a hand to her mouth, fighting the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes. Just then, from across the room, she met the solemn gaze of her husband.

* * *

Seated upon the twisted tree root, Christine drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, a few scattered crumbs of the pastry still gripping the thin fabric. Her small legs swung absently in the air as she looked out at the calm waters, relishing the quiet of the night. It was not often that she was able to play—her Papa needed her with him.

She hummed softly to herself, the simple tune a folk song from her Papa's homeland. He would play it only at night, the violin notes like a requiem, gentle and mournful. She heard the first strains now, muffled by the wind but still present, summoning her.

Christine crawled off the root, wincing as her hand caught on a particularly sharp crevice, tearing the skin. Stifling a cry, she lifted her injured finger to her mouth, sucking on a wound. Slowly, her hand fell back to her side as she gazed off at the rocks, her head just tilted as she stared in wonder. A white face looked back at her, the wind brushing strands of hair across the serene countenance. She could barely make out the rest of the form huddled against several large boulders, the darkness shielding well.

A hand reached out, the other one tugging at the white face. Christine backed away hurriedly, her eyes wide. Her wound forgotten, she turned and ran to the cottage, consoled by the voice of a violin.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Nasir al-Din Shah was very much the Shah of Persia from 1848-1896. Both he and his son contracted large foreign loans to finance expensive trips to Europe. Nasir's visit was approximately 16 years later after the said year in this story, but since I have skewed several dates along the way, I hope this inaccuracy may be forgiven. It is also important to note that from this point onward, his character will be fictionalized and is therefore not an accurate representation of the real historical figure.

On a related note, the Shah of Persia has quite a few titles. _Shâhanshâh_ was the name adopted by the last Shah in his coronation, literally translating into King of Kings, but more accurately in meaning, Emperor.

In response to a reviewer's question, Perros-Guirec is a town located on the _Côte de Granite Rose_ in northern Brittany, France. This is where Leroux specified that Christine spent some of her time growing up. Whenever I change location or year, I will always try to put them as a heading, the exception only being if the shifting local or time is obvious within chapter itself.

In conclusion, for those readers frustrated with the update time of this story, I can only offer my apologies. I have been working on this chapter for some time now and it has been one of the most challenging to write yet for multiple reasons. I have waited _months_ for an update from authors I follow, and the end result has always been worth it. While it may be bold of me, I ask for your patience, as I am doing the best I can. Thank you.

Thanks again to my Mom for patiently playing beta for me.


	20. Chapter 20

Benoît sat alone in the music room, head pressed against heated palms. The light of dawn was just creeping through the curtains, but it offered no solace in the promise of a new day. For all the excitement the evening should have promised, the carriage ride back to Paris had been deathly silent, the weight of the unspoken bearing down upon all the occupants.

Sighing, Benoît sat up, massaging the back of his neck where the collar still rubbed. He had not bothered to change clothes once he stepped into the darkness of their house, ironically enough. He was alone, drowning in the horrid sea of his own thoughts. Benoît wanted nothing more than to forget the Masque, the dark looks between his parents, and most of all, the quiet, almost compassionate gaze of his pseudo brother.

Erik had no trouble garnering attention at the Masque. They were close in age, yet Benoît's presence was a sad comparison to the other. He did not even have to wear a mask to remain unseen…

He gave a dry smile as he looked down at the floor where the discarded painted mask lay. It was such an unoffending, foolish disguise. Never had he questioned Erik's use of one. There had been times he had stared at the flawless black face, meeting the sharp look of his tutors, but never had he dared to remove it. Erik governed that much respect from him, as much as he loathed it.

Yet Benoît could not deny his curiosity, if perhaps by chance, there was some intrinsic flaw in the apprentice to usurp the otherwise ideal character. His mother had been close, so dangerously close to discovering what he wondered all along…

His mother… 

She failed to look at him or his father for the remainder of the night. There had always been a rift between them—he accepted this long before—but now the chasm was too evident to ignore. Time offered no reprieve for the miserable.

_Scheming whore that she is_, Benoît thought angrily, rising. Did his father even know? In his fright, Benoît had not dared to tell of her infidelity. It was already enough that he had sincerely lost the affections of one parent. Perhaps, even if dishonestly, he could maintain the attentions of the other.

He cast a long glance at the forlorn piano, and his hands formed into fists. There were other young men his age, now accomplished and off to prestigious schools to perfect their art. Where was he? Left behind, forced to study subjects of no interest while his only passion was dismissed before his eyes.

Erik was never granted such injustices, he seethed. There had always been that terrible strain of jealousy and envy, all entwined with the sure knowledge of his inferiority. He was reminded of it every day as a boy, be it in the tutors' amazed expressions or in his father's proud smile. Music was his only power over the apprentice, his only sad weapon. Yet the way Erik had glanced at the few sheets of music Benoît possessed… it was a fleeting look, but not unlike how the apprentice studied the complex maps of the opera house. There was passion, interest…_understanding_.

Benoît resisted a frustrated scream, instead collapsing on the piano bench. His head pounded now. The morning promised a beautiful day, and the sun was now well above the trees. Benoît looked down as the light hit the forsaken mask on the floor. Therein lay his only comfort.

* * *

**Author's note:**

A thousand apologies to my readers! I had several chapters beyond this written, all which were unfortunately lost. In addition to having an extremely challenging semester, I must now work from scratch, but I am trying! I will not abandon this story, I promise you. There has been too much time and effort put forth into this to stop now.

As always, your comments are highly valued. Thank you!


	21. Chapter 21

Jaclyn lifted the embroidered handkerchief up to her mouth, muffling her cough as she exited the upstairs room. Kneading the soft material in her hand, she walked down the long hall alone, accompanied only by the flickering candlelight. She did not even bother to throw a glance in the ornate hall mirror, as was her normal practice. There was no need; her appearance was hardly becoming in the last few weeks. Stylish dresses and jewels could no longer mask the pale complexion conquered by signs of deceit and age.

And yet for the first time in her life, the architect's wife could not bring herself to care.

A week previous, she had received a hastily delivered letter detailing that her young _avocat_ had passed away without warning, leaving behind a trail of young broken hearts. Subject to a life full of lies and charms, it would only be so long until his exorbitant debts and her generous allowances were traced back to the Gardnier accounts. Then, without doubt, all of Paris would know her liaison. Aubert would know. Then again, Jaclyn chided, he already did.

Both seated at dinner, Aubert had made no comment as she paled upon reading the note. Her husband's stress-filled face held something darker now, though aimed at herself or at the world—perhaps both—she could not be sure. He had made no comment as she quickly exited the room, locking herself away to cry tears that would not come.

Jaclyn gripped the banister tightly as she made her way downstairs. The house was vacant of the normal servants talk, or her husband's gruff cough as he worked. She almost longed for that now, as much as she despised his work. There was a time when she would have simply left the place in favor of tea with other affluent Parisians or another party. Gossip provided a comforting, even if shallow, envelope for her to sink into.

She wanted no one to see her now. Straightening her posture, she walked with more composure than she felt, relishing the last few rays of light that fought past the curtained windows.

Jaclyn swallowed as she paused by the music room. One of the doors was ajar by just a fraction. It was a trivial detail that she would have never noticed or given care about before, but now it was so very quiet in the house. Perhaps if there was a chance she would stumble upon her son, even a maid…

_How the ladies would laugh at me now_, she thought bitterly. _When have I ever dared to accept loneliness?_

Tentatively, Jaclyn pushed it open further, her hopes dashed as she stared into the empty space. Yet right then, her eyes locked on an unusual shadow.

The young man stood silently, turned toward the window. She could hardly believe that a human could remain so still, apart from in death. Benoît was ever fidgeting, anxious and restive. But Erik—he was the epitome of solemn calm. Even his breathing was imperceptible to her peering eyes.

It had not always been so. With every passing day, he seemed to shed more and more traits shared by humanity, reminiscent of some dark, ethereal presence. A presence, Jaclyn had long since concluded, that inadvertently necessitated attention.

Without a word, Erik looked at her. Jaclyn could not see his eyes from the shadows of the mask, but all the while, she felt chilled.

"I…"

Her voice was uncharacteristically weak. The apprentice had never particularly intimidated her, and yet now she wished for nothing more than to be rid of his harsh gaze. This time he would not be made victim to her intrusion…

Erik placed his hands neatly behind his back, his body still angled towards the window. "What is it?" he asked jadedly.

"I was…" She paused. "I was curious as to your purpose in this room."

"I value my privacy."

"There are other rooms."

Jaclyn earned only an elegant shrug. She gathered herself, taking a step forward. The apprentice did not move, though she was sure his mouth flattened.

"You have never shown any inclination toward music."

"Neither have you, Madame, and yet here we are."

She was too surprised by his apathy to even be offended by the blunt statement, true as it was. Jaclyn had never been blessed with a voice that would draw audiences to their feet, nor given the grace of a dancer on the lit stage. But she had power, nonetheless.

"You are finally afraid," he murmured, almost as an afterthought.

Jaclyn gave a weak smirk, even as she retreated a step. "I haven't the faintest clue what you are speaking of, _boy_."

"You don't?" Erik retorted, the corner of his mouth lifting sadly. Her slight insult did not even prick him, much to her disappointment. He stared back at the window, once again ignoring her. Jaclyn watched the apprentice with a mixture of shock and injury, as an animal stung by its master's lash.

Unsure of what to say, she left the room, stopping only when another bout of coughing overtook her. Delicately wiping her lips, Jaclyn lifted her head back up, surprised to see Erik's gaze back on her. Yet the warning that had been present before was absent, replaced by an emotion she could not place.

This time, it was the apprentice that moved toward her, every step smooth as any cultured aristocrat.

"Madame?" he asked cautiously, the beautiful voice tinted with concern. Jaclyn folded up the handkerchief, looking away from him.

"My husband has been absent all day," she stammered. "Perhaps you can bring him home, should he desire it."

With that, she left Erik alone.

* * *

The apprentice did not summon a carriage to take him to the opera house. He left the Gardnier residence without a word, lacking all evening attire befitting a gentleman, though it was not for need of propriety. He was no fool. Night had fallen over Paris for hours now, and the walk to the opera house was not a short one. The route hardly comprised of all upper class housing. Erik remembered the corrupt neighborhoods of his youth well—_very_ well.

The air was quite cold around him, but he ignored it, careful to avoid the telling streetlamps as he made his way silently through the mud-hardened streets. All around him, flashes of images from those few terrible years…

Erik stopped dead in his tracks, staring down a gloomy, decrepit street. _The old woman had been there…_

He recalled the sharp prick of the rose thorns against his palm, numb as his hands had been. Even then, he had wished to know the feel of those delicate scarlet petals, but they had been too beautiful…much too beautiful for his touch.

He lowered his head against the wind and moved forward again, almost thankful for the mask's protection of his face.

It was not long before the shape of the opera house loomed before him, its structure foreboding and stunning in the night. Erik slipped past the front doors with ease, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. Every detail of the opera house was in order; he had made sure of it. Even in the night, the marble and precious metals shone brilliantly, echoing the dark, ghostly reflection as he passed.

Erik paused a moment, eyeing a top hat left carelessly on the stair. He had long since learned to recognize Monsieur Gardnier's accessories—all still bore a hint of dust from the opera's construction.

He picked up the hat gently, squeezing the brim before he respectfully placed it back on the stair. The architect was hardly a quiet man—his step was recognizable anywhere in the opera house, at least to Erik's ear. But the place was utterly silent.

Erik moved forward without thinking, driven by instinct, but more so by a feeling he despised even greater— the unsolicited twinge of _hope_.

* * *

This time, the apprentice did not hesitate entering through the archway. Aubert had indeed closed off the entryways into the bowels of the opera house, though not completely. The man was ever fearful of another flood of water or a cracked support, despite his protégé's assurances. Thus, there were ways past the doors, alternate routes meant for emergency, and known by no one save the architect himself.

However, the man never fully took into consideration his apprentice's photographic memory abilities. Just one chance glimpse at the clandestine blueprint was all it took. It was wise for Aubert not to tell him; the architect had enough dignity not to wish memories of their sad meeting upon the young man, and Erik had gratefully played along.

Until now.

As the journey progressed, all light afforded by the moon was obliterated. Erik made his way blind, though he hardly needed his eyesight. He knew every step despite having last traveled it as a dying boy.

The air changed around him from the sweet scent of marble, stone, and paint to one of thick mildew. The stairs grew increasing slippery, but the young man did not lesson his pace.

The silence was broken only the scattering of an occasional rodent as he continued his descent, one turn after another, until the faintest glow shone ahead of him. Erik ran toward it, the stone mimicking his footsteps.

A torch lay half submerged in a puddle, its flaming dying by the moment. The apprentice grabbed it without losing a beat, his eyes searching the caverns around him. There were so many shadows, all following him, summoned by the rare light.

Erik spoke for the first time, tentatively calling the architect's name, his beautiful voice incongruous in the artificial Hades.

One more turn and he was at the edge of the lake. He held the torch up, staring at its gold reflection upon the black waters. It was calm here, unearthly calm, mocking his desperation.

"Erik…"

He spun around at his name, heart racing as he moved toward the sound. It did not come again, but there was no need. The architect was sitting against a wall, his face pale.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, coughing. Erik set the torch down, taking up the man's cold hand.

"I see now why you came here, all those years ago," Gardnier continued, his voice raspier with each word. "It is so peaceful. One could hide away from the world and the world would never know."

His apprentice was silent, looking at the ground. The architect pulled away his hand.

"Leave me here, Erik. I don't want to return. I…" He licked his lips, "I don't want to return to…_her_."

For the first time since his childhood, Erik felt the sting of tears against his skin, creeping beneath the mask. It would be all too easy to obey the architect's plea. He could return, feign ignorance and let the man die alone.

_Die alone…_

Erik closed his eyes. He had been just a small boy in this place, but he had had every right to perish in seclusion…there had been no one to search for him, no one to mourn his loss. A man could not wish for a grander tomb.

But as he had lain there, barely conscious, it was not solitude that comforted him. No…his mind had been cruel. He had remembered her, had pretended that she was with him once again, willing to reach out and hold her deformed son.

Erik looked back up at the fragile man. Without a word, he gripped the architect and brought him to his feet, supporting him. Gardnier did not utter a word of protest as they climbed slowly back up to the surface.

The apprentice did not fully appreciate the sprawling size of the opera house as he did supporting the weight of another. Gardnier was lifeless, his feet barely moving with Erik's. The young man listened to the other's ragged breathing, willing himself to move forward with greater haste.

They exited from a side door. Erik took a moment to adjust his grasp on Gardnier before they moved along the dark streets. It was not long before Gardnier stopped walking altogether, collapsing to the ground. Erik hauled him over to a streetlight, letting the architect rest a moment while he hailed a passing caddy. The driver took one glance at Erik before he snapped the reins against the horse's flank, hurrying its pace. His hands in fists, the apprentice watched as the caddy disappeared into the night, abandoning them.

Gardnier looked up at Erik as the youth kneeled down before him. "Are we almost there?" he asked softly, his eyes closing as he shivered. Erik placed the architect's arm around his shoulders once more, rising. The dull ache awakened in his back as he took the other's weight upon himself. Glancing over at the suspicious persons of the night, he started forward again. "Yes, Monsieur," he lied. "Yes, we are."

* * *

Galen Gardnier had not arrived in Paris until that morning, cheered by the sight of the city. London was his home, without doubt, but there was something about the vibrancy of this place, the passion of its people and its art; it never failed to move him.

He had no designs of disturbing his brother's family before evening, despite his longing to see his nephew. Instead, the physician took advantage of the crisp afternoon weather, taking a long walk from his affluent hotel to the various signature spots of the city, taking in the sights of the place that had once been his home. It had been only by chance that he happened upon the opera house. Most Parisians passed by it with indifference, used to its presence. But to a visitor—the opera house demanded attention.

Galen stood across the street, a smile crossing his lips. He could hardly believe the great edifice was completed, the epitome of his brother's artistic vision. Had he really been gone from France so long? It had been just a skeleton structure when he had seen it last.

Having wet his palette with the tastes of the city, the rest of the day had been spent in the relative quiet of his hotel suite. Lounged out at a table, the physician pored over the only letter he had received in reply to his own, composed in his nephew's neat hand. The young man apologized for his intrusiveness, but made no effort to conceal his excitement of a visit from his beloved uncle. The letter was politely ambiguous, but Galen had no reason to doubt it was only the boy's sense of decency that withheld him from speaking freely of the difficulties within the family. He had urged his uncle to seek ulterior lodgings within Paris, though his reasoning was thin.

Galen frowned, folding the letter up and placing it in his coat pocket. A quick glance at the clock told him that he had several hours to wait before he could even consider calling upon his brother.

With a sigh, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

* * *

The long journey from England had been more taxing than he had first presumed—Galen woke up with a start, cursing as the clock read only an hour until midnight. Shedding the wrinkled travel clothes, he put on a fresh suit, smoothing out the front as he examined himself in the mirror. It would do, at least for a short visit.

_If only to see Benoît_, he reminded himself unhappily.

The hotel was situated in a wealthy sector of the city, and Galen had no trouble finding a willing driver to take him. After all, the aristocrats were just beginning their parties, he thought wryly.

Lulled by the constant rhythm of the horse's hooves against the cobblestone, Galen looked out the window, the streetlights blurring together as he passed them. Within minutes, the safe, glowing environment of the Paris' upper class transformed into the cheap brick complexes riddled with poverty and crime. By instinct, he reached for his black doctor's bag, a habitual accessory. _You fool_, he berated himself, noting the bag's absence. He had been in a rush departing from the hotel—but perhaps it was for the best. His occupation followed him wherever he went. It would be good to pretend he was on vacation, illusory as the real prospect was.

But Galen was hardly so fortunate. Only a few blocks from his brother's residence and he caught sight of two miserable figures walking, one man draped over the other, both wearing the mud of the street.

Probably a drunk, Galen consoled himself, even as he commanded the driver to slow. Yet the more he watched, the more he felt ill at ease about the quick justification. Having passed by the ghettos, this area was prosperous. What reason was there for such men out in this place?

His conscience pitted against his reasoning, Galen swore under his breath. "Stop. Stop now!" he commanded, the driver pulling the horse to a halt. They were now a block from the Gardnier residence—Galen could see it. He turned his head back, watching their slow progress. They were on the other side of the street now, and he could just make out the coughing of the debilitated man.

With every passing moment grew the gnawing fear grew that these men were no ordinary vagrants. The way the one carried the other — even stooped, he moved with a refined manner. Forgetting decorum, Galen leaned out of the carriage window, only to catch a minute glance of the man.

The face young, but it was not the reason his heart rate quickened. Only half of it was visible, the other half camouflage with the night…The physician blinked. _It could not be…_

"Good God," he whispered. He remained paralyzed for a moment, helplessly watching as the two figures made their way up the path to the Gardnier house.

Reality taking hold, Galen shoved money into the driver's hand, running across the street just as the panicked maid opened door. She stared at the disheveled apprentice and Gardnier, then back at the gentleman coming toward them.

"Sir?" she asked timidly, moving back. Erik moved by her quickly, thankful to be in the warm house once more. Without a word, he started up the stairs, Aubert struggling beside him.

"Let me in, that's my brother!"

Erik glanced back at the commotion. _He remembered that voice... _

Meeting the gaze of the physician, he gave a brief nod. "Let him in," he commanded.

Galen shoved past the maid, hurrying up the stairs. Taking the other arm of his brother, they both carried Aubert to his room.

The young man looked exhausted, but he did not rest. Issuing orders to another maid, he stirred the fire and brought over another blanket to lie over the architect.

Galen did not even ask where they had been—their dank smelling clothing was evidence enough. Resting a hand over his brother's forehead, he shook his head. "Aubert…" he whispered, a mix of compassion and reprove in his voice.

The other lay against the pillows with his eyes closed, motionless. The cough that Galen had heard had subsided, but the man's pallor and fever was enough to worry him. The maid brought in a basin of water, and the doctor dipped the cloth in, swabbing his brother's face.

He glanced over at the silent masked youth, a fragile grin appearing on his face.

"I thought I had witnessed a ghost," he said. "I never knew what had transpired…" He let the sentence end delicately, offering another weak smile. "Aubert is not fond of writing," he continued, his attention fixed back upon his brother. "It is no surprise to me, really."

Erik nodded, watching the physician's every movement with the same wariness he had displayed as a child. Galen moved quickly, without panic or anger. At length, he stepped back from the bedside, pulling down his rolled up sleeves. Glancing at his observer, he gave a friendly smile, though it could not hide the worry in his eyes.

"I apologize; we have yet to be properly acquainted." The physician took a step forward, extending his hand. "You are no longer the small patient I remember."

The apprentice met his grip, politely inclining his head. "You may call me Erik, Monsieur."

"Erik…" Galen repeated. "Have you been well all these years?"

The youth stepped back, aware of the physician's steady gaze on the mask. Reflexively, his hand moved to cold edges, even as he cursed himself for the action. _You fool, he knows_, Erik berated himself. After all, he stood before one of the few people privileged enough to have witnessed the fleshly massacre that was his face.

"Yes. I am content," he finally answered. Swallowing, Erik looked past the doctor and rested his gaze on the sleeping architect.

"He'll be fine," Galen said quietly, following the youth's stare, "much in thanks to you." He shook his head, glancing back over at the apprentice. "Do you visit the opera house often?"

Erik nodded. "I am privileged to be present during its completion."

"I am glad to hear it." Galen folded his hands behind his back. "I have no doubt you were a great aid to my brother. He always had such large dreams, but never the fortitude or opportunity to see them through, until now."

There was something in the sad tones of his voice, be it memory or contemplation, Erik did not know. The room became silent apart from the occasional crackle of the fireplace.

Sighing, Galen turned to face the young man, the signs of weariness growing more apparent by the moment.

"You should rest," he offered. "I shouldn't want you to become ill as well."

Erik did not move, his gaze shifting back to Aubert. "I must respectfully decline, Monsieur."

Sensing his resolve, Galen nodded. "Very well. For now, at least."

He was about to offer Erik the chair, but the young man took a place on the floor against the wall, the mask hidden from his sight.

* * *

Hours passed, and Galen was sure that Erik had not stirred once. The apprentice maintained a steady vigil, his gaze switching between the fireplace and Aubert's sleeping form. As for himself, Galen had remained at his brother's side, relieved to find Aubert's pulse and breathing strengthening.

Aubert had long since been changed into clean, dry clothing. The damp suit lay in a heap beside the bed, and Galen cast a wary eye at it. While his brother's line of work was hardly sympathetic to the prestige cleanliness required by aristocrats, no amount of grit or rain could ruin a suit as he had just done. Even now, Galen could smell the pungent mustiness saturating it. It was the same in the opera house caverns, though reason continued to battle with him. His brother would have no need to be there. It was a place unintended for the living.

The warmth from the hearth had dried Erik's clothing so no more than patches of dirt remained on the fabric's surface. Galen watched him unconsciously, visions of the small boy revived in his mind. He was hunched over in the corner, the shadows of the fire playing across his figure. Dark strands of hair hung limply across his forehead and cheek, sheltering what the mask did not. But those things were the limit of the past and present similarities, Galen concluded. The childish roundness of Erik's cheek was lost, replaced by the chiseled structure of a man. The doctor could only look at him with an artist's appreciation. Each curve of bone and skin was smooth, and equally mimicked by a black counterpart. The revealed flesh was as pale and untainted as it ever was, a cruel mockery to what must still exist on the other side. Galen could only wonder.

"Would you prefer a longer look?"

No one had spoken in hours, and the sound of Erik's voice jolted him. Galen said nothing, caught in-between shame and wonder at the young man's acuity.

Erik rose from his place on the floor, his tall, thin body hardly resembling of the child in Galen's memory. He did not move like others his age. Erik's graceful bearing was almost regal in manner, and the physician could not help but be enthralled by it. The faultless posture, his smooth, soundless footsteps, the impassive, challenging glare; it was as if Galen suddenly stepped into the presence of some dark prince.

Erik stopped a few feet from him. The physician could not discern what emotion was present in the boy's eyes, or if it was merely a void. Erik never let his eyes wander from Galen, and with measured hesitation, gripped the edges of the mask. Galen held his breath unconsciously.

"Erik, I do not need—"

His words fell away as he laid eyes upon the mass of unnatural swells and craters lining the young man visage. The sight had been incomparable years before, and it was no improvement now. As if reading his thoughts, Erik gave a wry grin—or what should have been a grin. While perfectly visible on one-half of his face, it was easy to see how the deformed side struggled to move. The facial muscles had only further atrophied over time, stretched as they were over bone laced with only a few pulsing veins.

"Was it the same in your memory?" Erik asked, his voice soft. All the poise of the moment before vanished, and he could no longer hold the gaze of the physician.

Galen truthfully shook his head. "I am…I am sorry, Erik." It was a terrible thing to say, but what else was there to offer? He looked down at the mask in the young man's hands. It was not the original mask that Erik had been given as a boy, but nonetheless, he could see the edges chipped away in places, the shiny black faded in others.

To Galen's surprise, Erik placed the mask in his hand. Turning his deformed half away from sight, Erik moved toward the door. He paused just before opening it.

"I never had the opportunity to…thank you, Monsieur."

Without another word, he rested a hand where the mask had been, leaving Galen alone with his patient.

A corner of his mouth rising, Galen placed the odd gift inside his pocket, the entire scenario playing over in his mind. Just then, the blankets stirred next to him. The physician looked over at his brother. Aubert was waking.

* * *

The house was silent, save for the steady rhythm of muffled footsteps on the carpeted floor. The maid burst into the room with hardly a knock, breathless.

"Madame!"

Jaclyn was still, facing the fireplace. "_Madame_," the maid tried again, taking a step forward. "Monsieur Erik has returned with your husband." She paused, her hands folded anxiously. "He is very ill, Madame. There is a doctor with him."

She watched the wry smirk pass briefly over the lady's ashen face. Even so, her mistress made no move, her eyes rapt upon the dying flames in the hearth.

"Very well," she said at last. The maid looked at her strangely, but gave an obedient curtsey and left the room.

* * *

Aubert opened his eyes. Blinking, he tried to focus on the form hovering over him. "Erik?"

"No. He had been here all night, however." Galen gave an unconscious pat to the mask in his pocket.

Aubert struggled to sit up, gazing around the room. "Where is he?" Galen put a gentle hand on his shoulder to stop his struggling.

"Elsewhere, at the moment," the physician answered. "Here. I want you to drink this." His brother took the teacup with noticeable hesitation, sniffing its contents. "Good God," he spat after trying a sip, "this will surely only hasten my trip to the grave."

He brother chuckled softly. "I assure you, it will not. It is an herbal recipe of the gypsies. It works wonders in clearing up the lungs."

Aubert made a face. "Since when have you trusted _their_ tastes?"

Galen motioned for him to take another sip. "The queen asked me the same question, but she did not whine nearly as much as you."

A smile almost broke across Aubert's stony complexion. Shaking his head, he finished the last of the liquid and set the cup aside.

"It is good to see you again, Galen." His brother nodded, rising to give the fire another stroke. Aubert leaned back against the pillows. "When did you arrive?"

The physician straightened, coming back to the chair next to the bedside. "I arrived to see you carried in half dead by your protégé." He paused a moment. "A strange turn of events, wouldn't you say, Aubert?"

The architect shifted uncomfortably at his brother's grim tone. "He should not have come for me, if that is what vexes you."

Galen frowned. "The young man's valor is undeniable," he said, "but he saved a coward."

"Galen, I have no desire to hear a lecture from you, not after all these years…"

"What were you doing _there_?" the physician asked, his voice rising. Aubert sighed. "Erik told you?"

"He has told me nothing. The condition of both him and yourself was evidence enough. I still remember that place, Aubert. Even after all this time." He looked down at his folded hands.

"Some dark desire has to drive a man down there, Aubert."

"Galen, enough. I have no need for your waxing poetics."

"Then tell me. Why, Aubert, _why_?" He looked back up at his brother, concern etched over the lines of his face. "I thought the caverns were closed off."

Aubert closed his eyes. "They are." The physician lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. "I made sure there were other ways to enter…only I had hoped that I alone knew them."

To his surprise, Galen smiled. "Erik does seem quite clever. I am pleased he has found a place here."

His brother did not return the sentiment. "Perhaps we are more alike than one would initially choose to believe. I too, wear a mask."

"Aubert—"

"It was a place of escape, Galen. I wished to shut myself up from the world, even from God."

"God?"

Aubert let out a bitter laugh. "If you had any recollection what has transpired these last few weeks, you would question the Almighty's sense of benevolence as well."

"How could I know?" the physician started, his voice calm. "You failed to reply to my letters."

"Do you presume to judge me, then?"

Galen shook his head. "I am only concern about my brother, Aubert. Nothing more."

With a sigh, he stood up. "Now with that said, I should let you rest." Aubert reclined back in his pillows, the dose of the laudanum-laced drink taking effect.

Running a hand through his hair, Galen stepped outside, careful to close the door softly behind him.

"Welcome back."

The physician spun around, coming face to face with his nephew. He moved away from the door, resting a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Just look at you, Benoît!" he said. His nephew gave a sideways smile, but the boyish gleam Galen remembered was all but gone.

He looked past his uncle to the closed door. "Father is unwell?"

Galen nodded, disturbed by the boy's apathetic tone. Clearing his throat, he attempted a grin. "So," he said, moving down the hall, "what has occupied your attention lately?"

His nephew shrugged. "I stay in my room most days. Most boys are off at the academy. Instead, I was kept here."

"Hasn't Erik kept you company?" Galen asked, regretting his comment instantly as Benoît scowled.

"No. He is always with father. Anyway, we were never much alike. I wanted to pursue music. He only took interest in the things father enjoyed."

"Benoît, that cannot be true. Your father is proud of your accomplishments." Yet even as he spoke it, Galen doubted his statement.

"And what have I accomplished? Nothing!" Benoît retorted, his voice biting. "At least Erik can boast having created much of the opera house."

Galen raised an eyebrow. "_Created?_"

"Of course. He is better at drawing up blueprints than father."

"But he is so…"

"_Young?_" Benoît offered. "It doesn't matter. _It never has_."

His uncle was at loss for words. Erik had implied his presence during the opera house construction, but there was obviously much more truth beneath his ambiguity. To have literally built such a thing…it was an unparalleled accomplishment.

"Tea, Monsieurs?" They both started at the maid's sudden appearance. She took a step back, her gaze directed at her feet.

Galen smiled weakly. "Yes, tea would be welcomed. Thank you." She curtsied and hurried away. "Perhaps there is a more private place?" he asked, motioning at the open hall. Benoît pushed open the door next to him. Galen blinked as they entered the dark room. He hardly recognized it from years before. The curtains were pulled closed, the plants withered in their vases. Dust covered the books and rich furniture, only lending to the derelict aura. At the edge of the room stood the piano, the once shiny black now a duller shade. Galen could not help but feel a sting of gloom that pervaded the place, not unlike its occupants.

"Do you no longer play?" he asked, nodding toward the piano. Benoît sighed. "There was always someone complaining of a headache, or father would come down and yell at me while I practiced. But worst of all, at times, _he_ would watch…like he knew every note and I was no more than an ignorant fool pounding on the keys."

Galen's eyebrow lifted. "_He_, Benoît?"

His nephew did not answer. Benoît walked up to the piano, running his hand through the dust. "I was good at it, Tonton Galen. Perhaps I could have been one of the greats."

"Do not lose heart. You still could be, Benoît."

The young man sat down at the piano bench, pressing down on one of the keys. "No," he replied thoughtfully, "I cannot. Not when I am only another's shadow." He pressed down another key, looking out the door. Galen followed his nephew's gaze, but saw nothing except the empty hall.

Benoit fixed his attention back on the piano, striking another note. The sharp tone echoed through the room. _Can you hear it, Erik? Can you?_

Galen swallowed uncomfortably at his nephew's strange behavior. "Benoît, perhaps something a little more tuneful—"

Another note interrupted him. Benoît smiled darkly. "See, it does not matter! I could never impress them!"

Galen strode up to his nephew, slamming the lid closed. Benoît stared at him, eyes wide. His uncle shook his head, his breathing rushed. "Not like this, Benoît," he said quietly, moving away.

The young man shoved past him. "You would not understand."

He left Galen standing alone in the room. The maid entered a moment later bearing a tray. Hearing Benoît stomp upstairs, she looked at the physician meekly.

"I apologize for your trouble, but if you would just kindly bring me my coat and hat." The young woman eagerly set down the tray and hurried out.

What had transpired these last years? It was certainly nothing that a mere gift and a few scattered promises could resolve. His was a life devoted to aiding the weak, and now for the first time, Galen felt truly powerless.

Thanking the maid, he slipped on his coat, making for the door. Just as he was opening it, Galen paused, having the distinct feeling of being watched. Smiling, he looked over his shoulder, seeing Erik's tall form at the top of the stairs. There was another black mask hiding his face, akin to the one in Galen's possession. Without comment, the young man approached.

Galen gave him a weak smile. "I can do nothing more here today."

Erik nodded. With that blessing, Galen put on his hat, stepping outside. "Take care of him, Erik," he said, looking back. "There is no one else who will."

The apprentice lowered his head and closed the door. Galen held onto his hat as he moved down the walkway, cursing the strong wind. It was unusual for the time of year. _Or perhaps you have only forgotten_, he sadly mused.

A moment later, he was knocked to the ground. Sprawled ungracefully on the street, Galen sat up, befuddled.

"Monsieur, my deepest apologies!"

Blinking, the physician looked up at the foreign man hovering over him. His dark hand anxiously brushed away the grime on the fallen top hat.

His foul mood worsening, Galen nodded curtly, rising on his own despite the extended hand of the man. He gripped his proffered hat tightly, cheeks warming as he noticed the others watching him.

Forcing his mouth into a smile, Galen stepped around the man and started on his way back to the hotel.

The foreigner watched him go, and then turned back in his original direction. He had only moved a few steps before he stopped, quickly looking around him before he kneeled down. He lifted up the black mask with reverence, carefully placing it inside his silk coat before moving along.

His master would be pleased.


End file.
